


Pink and Gray

by FountainPenguin



Category: Fairly OddParents
Genre: Absent mother, Acupuncture, Anxiety, Awkward Kissing, Burger World, Child Neglect, Children dealing with stress, Claustrophobia, Gen, Genies, Hypochondriac Anti-Fairy children, Magical Klinefelter syndrome, Magical summer camp, Platonic Female/Male Relationships, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, They'll be happy peppy one day I promise, Vice President Longwood, Witches, Worldbuilding, car crash, mention of original character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-01
Packaged: 2019-07-01 08:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 60,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15770460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FountainPenguin/pseuds/FountainPenguin
Summary: Third-person omniscient POV; alternating narrators. Takes place December 1991 to April 2002.Sanderson calls it kidnapping and H.P. calls it a secret unpaid internship with extra tax deductibles. For young Gary Cabrera and Betty Lovell, interacting with Pixies and the magical world will soon be called "Just another Tuesday."





	1. Do Not Pass Go

**Author's Note:**

> This 'fic tells the story of Gary's and Betty's happy peppy childhood, their interactions with the Pixies, and how they met Flappy Bob. For best results, read "Pink and Gray" after my 'fic "Baby, You're a Rich Man." 
> 
> The 130 Prompt "Solo" picks up just after "Pink and Gray" ends.

 

_Year of Water, Winter of the Sunlit River_

_Friday, December 27th, 1991_

* * *

In this game of life, consider Player 1. His heritage is mixed, his tan skin an odd match for the light freckles around his bright green eyes. And especially for the scruffy ginger hair which rises from his head in spikes like a startled hedgehog's quills.

Within the depths of an ever-expanding storeroom, best known by the nickname the Pixies call it—The Labyrinth—and filed away in the undercloud of a mystical realm called Sprigganhame, we could normally find Player 1's permanent file. It would be hidden in a folder hidden in a drawer, interesting only to a single pixie who wandered the maze of shelves with two sharp cowlicks in his hair. The boy, human, by his nature belonged to a race with a limited lifespan. Up until a week ago, just a single pixie was aware of his existence.

We could normally find Player 1's permanent file organized neatly and alphabetically in a particular drawer of a particular cabinet. Normally, yes. But not tonight. Tonight that file rests open on a desk carved of stained purple chesberry wood, beside its unrelated twin.

 _Full Name:_  Garrett Juan Tuckfield Cabrera

 _Background:_  A child of the outdoors with an affiliation for nature and discovery. He makes friends that don't stay, as is the life of a boy who works in entertainment. The Tuckfields are the current owners (or rather, the maintainers) of a pleasant miniature golf course just west of Jetmore, Kansas that, for sentimental reasons, the Pixie race holds a fondness for. With the birth of Mister Ennet Sanderson on Hole 10 of that particular course many millennia ago, the Pixie race came into existence, and such was the beginning of order in the universe.

 _Strengths:_  Sensitivity. Patience. Passion.

 _Weaknesses:_  Where do we begin?

For these reasons, Player 1 has been affectionately code-named as a bishop. The name is fitting, for he is devout to everything he is told (blindly faithful at times), and surprisingly few suspect a bishop to skid across the chessboard and turn the tide of the game.

His parents began to argue when he was only five years old. Now, with him recently eight, they are finally silent. The decision was made, and the wedding bands have been removed. Player 1 will keep the Cabrera name.

He leans his head against the window of a shiny silver pick-up truck, his eyes open yet unable to notice each rolling field of fences and thin snow that passes by. The dirt road is riddled with holes and lumps. White stars sprinkle the clear, dark sky overhead. A half-eaten chicken sandwich, heavy on the pickles and heavier on the bacon, rests on the greasy paper bag in his lap. The radio blares on. His father cracks a joke about cold cows wandering their pastures with udders full of ice cream. Player 1 does not reply.

The other little boys in Jetmore have both moms  _and_  dads. Why not him?

Then again, the other little boys are good kids. They always come inside the house when the sky gets dark and never try to dodge their baths by washing in the water traps on the golf course. He's never seen them complain when told to clean up their rooms, or ever protest when told to spoon steaming green slop into their mouths. His parents always warned him he'd have to face the consequences if he were disobedient. He did not listen, and now look at what he's done.

In this game of life, consider Players 2 and 3. Siblings (unfortunately). Like Player 1, they are bound currently within a car. But though they travel the same road, they are heading the opposite way to visit relatives in another state. As of yet, the drivers of the two cars are unaware of the other's existence. They do not know yet that their paths will cross on the little dirt road for the first time as well as the last. They do not know yet, and won't ever, that at the crossing point, two small men dressed in gray float with square, beating wings to watch and wait.

Player 2 is female. Blue-eyed. Rosy-cheeked. Strong-willed. Powerful. Blonde. The damsel is a natural leader, born to an adventurous farmer of a mother and a sharp-tongued gambler of a father who doesn't drink and doesn't lose; no DNA test necessary. She will be the perfect influence for turning Player 1's timidity to strategic caution. While he has shown the capability to act in self-defense, three years of feeling alone and tossed about in the world means the capability has not generalized into the drive of protecting another. A cowardly bishop is a worthless one. He requires something—or someone—to care about in order for his gifts of sensitivity to be effective. Player 4 is sure of it, as he is sure of many things. And this, too, comes from a man who has made his feelings about emotions endlessly clear.

Player 2 has discovered the difficulties of playing The Alphabet Game throughout a long car ride of mostly pastures, gray lumps of slush, and distant wooden barns. She stretches both arms into the air, then tucks them away behind her head. She does not ask her mother if they have reached their destination yet, as she can see for herself that they haven't. Her father, who isn't driving, turns back to smile at her with waltzing eyes. In his hand he holds a deck of cards. For some time now he has been teaching her to play Poker, though she isn't very good at it. She smiles too often, and up until now it's given her away. But recently, Player 2 has developed a new strategy. If she cannot stop herself from smiling, then why not smile all the time throughout the game? Her dad could not discern the difference in her then. He shows her a card with his thumbs over the numbers, and she identifies it instantly and correctly as the nine of spades without counting them up. She has gotten very good at pretending to smile even when she isn't happy.

Beside her sits Player 3, kicking his legs and occasionally stretching for the cards with grabby hands. Player 2 looks on her young brother with hesitance and pity. His fingers will bend the cards and damage something she holds dear, for he is too little, of course, to understand their purpose. Yet her father chuckles and gives him a card anyway, teasing that it's only a two of clubs, and perhaps he should teach his children how to play Hearts.

Her file is the twin that rests upon the desk in the office up in Pixie World.  _Full Name:_  Elizabeth Arica Lovell

 _Background:_  Raised in an apple orchard and brought up riding horses and chasing ducks, she rapidly learned to ignore the scrapes and bruises she gathered while lost in the pursuit of "fun". Physical pain is inconsequential when it comes to following her heart, and she grows more immune to it with every scratch and strain. She is a warrior unrestrained. Were one to turn her heart for their own means, it's undoubtable she would make a powerful ally. Player 4 desires exactly that.

 _Strengths:_  Energy. Charisma. Grit.

 _Weaknesses:_  She requires taming. A snappy temper boils beneath the gentle exterior. Her play is aggressive and oftimes she finds it difficult to control her anger. Such emotional flaws will be corrected soon enough. Secret investigations report devoted parents and a stable home life, so these notable behavior patterns, while unpleasant, aren't likely to manifest into anything of serious concern. Not so long as she isn't traumatized too badly.

Player 3, only four years old, is unruly and babyish. Simple of mind and raised on the same farm and around the same time, what could he possibly have to offer the Pixie race that Player 2 can't? He does little besides watch VCR tapes on repeat, and isn't particularly interesting either.

Yet he remains an unfortunate burden. Something will have to be done eventually, but for now, the girl cares about him so dearly that removing him from the equation now would simply cause distress. She will be critical in shaping Player 1, who in turn will be critical in shaping her, and both must play their parts to shape each other (and, someday, Player 6) if this 37-year plan to reorganize the integral societal structure of the planet and gain absolute control of Fairy World is to be pulled off without a hitch.

For these reasons, she was chosen as a knight, protective and powerful with mental shield and sword to bear. He was chosen as a pawn. His name is Kenneth Thomas Lovell, and his file was left down in the dark corners of the Labyrinth.

In this game of life, consider Player 4. He dons a gray cap with a long tail instead of a golden crown, and a gray business suit with a collared white shirt and straight black tie instead of stuffy royal robes. A king, called ruthless; rightly so. For 27 years he's worked this plan. Delaying, occasionally, to dovetail it with others, as he is tonight, as he always does. Some call it procrastination. He prefers the term "practicality".

Some call ruling the universe ambitious– nay, maniacal! But soft, poor fools; one pities thee for the small minds the shells of your bodies are forced to bear. Some say the world will end in chaos, some say in order. Players 1 and 2 were chosen for this task after nights and days of careful calculations following one fateful evening when our Player 5 accidentally let his secret slip. Instantly he'd pulled the large brush away from his boss's wings, where it quivered a single millimeter in his grip and was forgotten. Player 4 sharply turned his head. A staring contest began. It ended when Player 5 chose to blink.

"What human children?" Player 4 had questioned.

"No human children, sir," Player 5 replied, his gaze flickering to his clothes. Like Player 4, he is all but always suited in gray, though his pointed hat lacks the long tail and the jingling metal star that dangles so tantalizingly on its low-hanging end. Accursed, tasty little star.

"Sanderson."

"I mentioned the Tuckfields, sir. From Kansas. Quincy's nymph. Eunice Tuckfield's gran–"

Experience has taught him not to use the word "son". Player 5 hesitates, then mumbles "grandnymph" in its place.

"I wasn't informed that Eunice had a grandnymph."

"He's a young human drake who craves a friend and stable life after so many years of standing by on a miniature golf course and watching children his age come and go. The divorce affected his gentle heart even more. He's just eight now, the drake. But– he won't be of any use to us, and there's really no reason to consider uprooting-"

"Don't the Lovells have a damsel now?"

There is a pause. Player 4 still hasn't blinked. Player 5 blinks again. Something wet and warm is running down his head. It feels like sweat. His fingers clench around the handle of the wing brush until they turn white.

"Sanderson."

"The Lovells have… two children, sir. The older is a damsel. The younger is a drake."

"Interesting. And she's the age of Quincy's nymph?"

"Sir, it wouldn't be practical, or even ethical, to breed them–"

"There's that flaw of yours again, Sanderson. For a pixie, you always do insist on thinking with emotions."

Player 5 does not say anything. Inwardly he winces, a shard of imaginary glass stabbing a corner of his soul, but he is resilient, and the flicker of pain does not show on his face.

"As for me," continues Player 4, "I don't think in terms of romance and desire so much as in terms of friendship. My relationship with the High Count of the Anti-Fairies is one of practicality and trust, and that's why I consider Anti-Cosmo my best and dearest friend."

Player 5 does not say anything about this, either. It is a bitter subject, and the scab has only recently begun to heal. His teeth clench in silence. He knows Player 4 will notice. Player 4 always notices.

"I see myself in that young drake and damsel," Player 4 reveals. He does not acknowledge the fact that he has never met or even heard of them before, as such a fact is irrelevant and would only waste his, and therefore everyone's, valuable time. "If Anti-Cosmo and I had been raised together, that would be these human children."

Player 5 does not understand this logic. This isn't new, as there have been many times that Player 5 can't quite seem to follow Player 4's superior intellect. It is for reasons like this that Player 5, not Player 4, is the boss of Pixies Inc., and Head Pixie of their race as a whole. He scratches his head with the brush.

"Raised together, sir?"

"They need to be taught to work as a team. I see strength in coordination. Once their loyalty to us and our values is assured, and their skills are honed, they could be just the pieces we need to fit into our 37-year plan. We'll do what we did with Flappy Bob. We'll find them on the side of the road, and take them under our wing. But this time, we won't need to maintain such a distance."

The brush clatters to the floor. "But–"

" _Valleysky v. Geraldson_ , Sanderson. I'll need you to pull it all together. The children are under eighteen. With all potential guardians out of the way, and with Amity Angel Safety and Protective Recall Agency's permission (or should I say, my baby sister Emery's), they're ours for the taking. I'll have Longwood organize the paperwork by tomorrow night."

"But–!"

"We'll feign to the human authorities that they're dead," Player 4 decides, leaning back in his chair. He folds his arms behind his head, his wings skipping with a pleasant buzz.

"But– but– That's the  _genie_  way of doing things." Even the pointy gray hat floating above his head shudders with the rest of him.

"Which is why no one would suspect it from a pixie."

"Sir,  _Valleysky v. Geraldson_  is a last resort case. The Fairies won't like it if we cut corners to try and adopt–"

Knuckles crack. "We can't bring adults into the cloudlands. We don't have the capability to erase their memories, either, so we can't leave them in the know when we snatch their children away. We're too late to miss the changeling fate. Now, if this is going to work as I envision, we need legal documentation such as citizenship and birth certificates in place. Longwood will gray the files out of human detection until we need them. That leaves the task of getting rid of the parents to you. What I don't want is you causing a noticeable stir that would bring attention to the fact that they're alive. Get rid of the parents quietly and easily, without an investigation from either human or magical persons. Make it look like an accident, and leave the rest of the strings to me."

Player 5 opens his mouth, but no words leave his tongue.

In this game of life, consider Player 5. A loyal servant—a warrior—who knows little fear except the snow; so dear to the man's heart the Head of Pixies is. And yet, still too, the human nymphs. He's watched them long, and still recalls a tale of kindness never lost. A child at a golf course and two children on a farm. It was 27 years ago. How quickly time passes for the human race. To think that they're parents now.

Player 5 was given a job to do, and his job is doing jobs.  _My king,_ he once protested, _I can't. Not them._ His fingers burned from combing through his sweeping cowlicks, and he refused to show his eyes behind the tinted plastic of his shades. Not only out of accordance with the traditions of his culture.

 _Sanderson,_ Player 4 said, tilting down his own, clear glasses as he stared.

_Yes, sir._

And now they are here. Two pixies, not even eight feet tall between the pair. They hover above a snow-dusted pasture near the crossing point, thirty seconds to go, and they wait beneath the stars. The cars come to them.

"Sanderson," Player 4 says.

Appropriately, if slowly, Player 5 raises his ballpoint pen. Its back end is capped with a star, which glows with channeled magic and sparks with energy and heat like a playful thing. From this distance on the hill, he cuts the brake lines of both cars. He hardens the dirt and ices the roads. As the Anti-Fairies would have said, he twisted destiny and created a knot in the midst of fate.

The first car skids at once. Player 1, who'd just begun to nod off, jerks up his head. The second car careens likewise, with Players 2 and 3 both alert and alarmed. Player 5 flings forward his hand, batting his own star-capped pen through the air. Something goes  _ping!_  and the children fall asleep. Bodies limp and relaxed, dusted with magic, they are shielded from the brunt of the damage when the cars collide. The night sky is too clear and too beautiful for a brutal collision to play out this way.

It's a car crash, caused by drowsy drivers late at night in the middle of winter. It won't cause a noticeable stir. Three adults and three children die in the accident.

Then Player 4 takes Player 5 by the shoulder. "Good boy," he says, and Player 5 can scarcely manage a wordless nod. He is not crying. He has been trained too well for 253,147 years to throw his training away now. He is as stoic as a warrior who knows little fear except the snow.

In a buzzing of glossy square wings, they cross past the wooden fence and descend a slight hill to the road, Player 4 in front and Player 5 stiff and silent behind. Twisted pieces of metal and sprinkles of glass are everywhere, so it is fortunate the pair can float. Player 4 examines the results of their handiwork, while Player 5 hangs back and plays at keeping watch. Three children survived the accident.

An eyebrow lifts at the sight of one adult attempting to sit up. "Sanderson. You missed one."

He did. He does not tell Player 4 it was on purpose. He was not asked to reveal that information. Player 5 drifts over to the only twitching body on the muddy road, his arms dangling at his sides.

She is the strong human damsel tasked with driving the westbound car. On her injured back, she moans first for her children, then cries her husband's name. Player 5 does not flinch when he hears it, or when he notices that the straw hat she'd been wearing flew away and left her perfect blonde hair tangled, dirty, and exposed to the harsh sun. She is hurt, with bruises already swelling up her arm. Fabric seat belts do not resist the tug of magic and are so easy to manipulate. Her breaths come out in huffing gasps. Bits of chicken sandwich lay beside her, surrounded by snips of pickles.

It would only take a few waves of his pen to save her. True, the price of magic drawn from the Big Wand in Fairy World would not be cheap, and the stack of paperwork to file regarding such a simple whim would be daunting, but Player 5 is a pixie born and pixie bred. He does not mind either of those things.

He doesn't. Mind or save her. Instead, he wedges his shoe against her neck, and slows the beating of his wings. They stop. His weight returns, no longer held at bay by the helium gasket in his head which grants partial immunity from gravity's strictest laws. One foot settles on the ground. Without hesitation, he pushes the other down.

The damsel does not remember him much, nor the promise he made on a hill long ago… shouted with her hat on his head, a torn wing dangling down his back, and a supply of water bottles in his arms. The promise that he would always watch over her children has been essentially forgotten. Reminding her now would be as pointless as remembering it. He does his job quickly and feels nothing.

"Hawkins and Wilcox have already taken steps to ensure the extended family members won't get in our way."

Player 5 looks over at these words from his king. He removes his foot. It's quiet on the road.

"Everything is in order but the paperwork," Player 4 clarifies. "I'll ask Longwood to blur their records in the census data until we need them again. Get the little damsel. I'll carry the drakes. We'll  _ping_  to my office and wait until the sleeping charm wears off." Player 4 pauses then and massages his chin. He looks down at the three silent children curled up on the ground before him; already, he disentangled them from the straps of their seats. The boy with the spiky ginger hair and tan skin hugs a crumpled paper bag to his chest. The girl and her brother reach hopelessly for one another in their dreams. "I hope I didn't overdose them. I meant to check how much their bodies can handle before the charm is lethal. I just didn't get around to it."

"Yes, sir."

Consider the game of life. See how our masters play, binding chancelings to their rules.

Such is our story. And it is with the wave of a pen and a twinkling cloud of dust that we leave this lonely, damaged road. With a second cloud appearing softly in a tidy office decked out entirely in purple and gray decor, we choose to set our scene. Soon, the three children wake.

Soon, the next level in their game of life begins.


	2. How Low Can You Go?

_Year of Water, Winter of the Sunlit River_

_Friday, December 27th, 1991_

* * *

It was morning.

Was it morning? She had a heavy, cool blanket on top of her, and it felt like she'd been asleep for a long time. So maybe it was morning.

Betty opened her eyes to a slit like a cat's claw. Even beneath the blanket, her skin prickled with the rasping of the heaters on the walls. It was a soft rumble, a pleasant rumble… but an unfamiliar one.

She lifted her head, still blinking at the piercing lights. They were the really bright yellow kind embedded in the ceiling tiles, like the ones from school. The blanket on top of her was dark blue.

She didn't have a dark blue blanket. Her baby blanket was pink, and she'd outgrown it, like she'd outgrown all her other pink things. Kenny's baby blanket wasn't dark blue either. This quilt was too heavy anyway.

Betty  _might_  have believed she'd fallen asleep in the car and Papa had carried her inside in his strong but gentle arms and laid her down in one of the beds in Grandma's basement… if she hadn't been sitting up. And if a boy she didn't know wasn't standing there offering her pizza.

He didn't give off the impression of someone who usually ate pizza. He was so short that he looked pretty young-ish, but the black sunglasses made it a little hard to tell for sure. When he offered her the open pizza box, it was with an attitude of great dignity. It was like she was a lady and he was a butler.

He wore the fanciest clothes Betty had ever seen in real life: A gray suit, with a neat white shirt underneath and a long black tie down his belly like a stripe. His hair had been slicked into two points at the front, and he wore a pointy hat, like a party hat without a string, at the back. And he wasn't smiling.

"Hi?" Betty offered, trying to find the boy's eyes behind his sunglasses.

"Um." He turned his head just slightly and looked at her. Really looked at her. Even through the glasses, she could tell. To her surprise, his voice was deep. Too deep to be a boy's, so maybe he was just a very short man. The very short man shifted the box in his arms. Betty couldn't help but notice that one of the pizza slices was missing. He said, "Hello. Welcome to Pixies Inc. We're pixies. My name is Mr. Sanderson."

"Oh… Hi, Mr. Sanderson." Betty moved her attention away from him and looked around the room. It was probably a living room. It had a typewriter, but having a big purple desk around was kind of weird. And if it was a living room, why was there only one door? A closed door, even, somewhere… to… her… left…

Betty blinked. This place was… strange. There was all this… new stuff to take in all at once. She was on a couch. Most of the room (even the wallpaper, the curtains, the bookshelves, the chairs, and the wooden floor) was light purple, but the couch was white. This uniformity was broken up by a black mat on the floor behind the desk where the big chair was, and by the black and white paintings hanging from the walls. There was a mirror right above her head. The windows behind the desk gazed out a starry sky, all blue and streaked with purples and pinks in different layers like a whole box of colored pencils stacked on top of each other.

Beside her on the couch sat her little brother Kenny, his sleepy head resting against the top of her arm. His blond hair was always a mess, but now it had gotten all ruffled up in swirls and waves. He turned his head, squirming like he knew he should wake up and get started on his chores, but he didn't really want to. Maybe he knew this was a strange place, and he was nervous. Betty put her arm across his chest and wrapped it around his shoulder. The whole time, Mr. Sanderson just stood there with the pizza box without saying anything. He didn't even move very much.

On the other side of the couch sat another boy Betty didn't know. He wasn't wearing a gray suit. He just had on normal clothes: A white shirt with a roaring green monster on it, and a red jacket halfway unzipped. Part of the blue quilt covered his lap and most of his tummy. His hair was as orange as fire. It was spiky like fire too. His eyes were already open. They were a very pretty green. Betty had always thought her pale blue eyes were the prettiest of all her friends', but he had really pretty eyes, even though he was a boy. He sat in a ball like he was nervous and wished the room's only tall, white door was open so he could run away. A chunk of pizza was kind of crumpled in his hand.

He was staring. Right at her. When Betty looked at him, he lifted his hand and gave her a small wave.

"Hi. I'm Gary. I'm lost."

"I'm Betty. Betty Lovell. I'm eight years old. I like the monster on your shirt. Um." She had to think hard for a second. "I was going to my grandma's house, but I think I'm lost too. Oh yeah, this is Kenny."

Kenny snoozed on.

"He's just tired. He's nice, though. Hey, do you like pizza?"

"Uh…" Gary looked at the half-eaten pizza slice in his hand. "The kind my grandma makes is better than this."

Quickly, Betty looked at Mr. Sanderson to see if his feelings were hurt. He didn't look hurt. Just distracted, like he could hear something far away that he wanted to go see. Like maybe the ice cream truck. But instead of going to see it, he had to stay in the room holding the pizza box because that was his job. How much could someone get paid for holding a pizza box, and what he was saving up to buy?

"I can see your eyelashes," Gary said seriously. Betty looked at him again. Gary leaned forward, the quilt scrunching up beneath him. His pants were the same blue as the fabric, and they had pockets. They looked like hers.

Gary stretched his free hand over Kenny's head. His fingers hovered. He looked at Betty, waiting for her permission to complete the movement. Betty didn't know what to say to him, but he seemed nice, and he did have a cool monster shirt. She didn't pull away. Gently, like he was trying to brush dust off a butterfly's wings, Gary touched her eyelashes.

"You have blonde eyelashes," he murmured, almost like he was talking to himself. He patted her gently with his fingertips. "But they're not too blonde that I can't see them."

Before she could think of something good to say back to him, the door opened. Betty jumped at the shoulders. She hadn't heard footsteps outside, and there hadn't been a knock. Only silence. She lifted her head to see past Gary as a very short, pudgy, almost kind of square old man slipped into the room.

This man's clothes looked even fancier than the man holding the pizza box's. True, they were still gray, but he had four buttons on the front instead of one. He wore a black tie too. Or, maybe his clothes weren't really fancier, and he was just bigger so it made him seem really important. He wasn't very tall, but he was still big. His glasses were HUGE. And behind them, he had big, pale blue eyes. Betty concluded that he was probably the one who had decorated this living room place, and that he and Mr. Sanderson were friends.

Maybe the old man had the same color and type of clothes as Mr. Sanderson, but he did have a bigger hat. Betty thought that where it touched his head, the hat looked tight and soft, like the knitted hats Mom made for them to play outside in the orchard when the weather "turned nippy for the year". But instead of a short hat with a pom-pom on top, this hat had a long tail that hung down behind his back. It looked just like a Santa hat with all the colors erased. The gray hat matched his gray suit exactly. Betty wondered where he shopped to find perfect clothes like that.

"Santa?" Gary asked, obviously thinking the same thing.

"Close," said the old man. His voice sounded a lot like Mr. Sanderson's. "My company's technically a subsidiary of Kringle Inc. I worked for him back when I was younger."

"You worked for Santa Claus?" Betty decided that was good enough of a qualification to trust him, even if he was a stranger. When he turned, something on the end of his hat would jingle like a bell.

The old man looked at her. His tall, bald forehead creased up. "Didn't I already say that? I wouldn't lie, and I'm not in the habit of contradicting myself."

Betty didn't know how to answer that. The old man didn't seem to expect her to. He turned to the young man… boy… person. "What's their status?"

Mr. Sanderson looked down at the box in his arms. "Not very hungry."

"Injuries?"

"In place."

"Blood samples?"

"Ralston is running them up right now. He'll have them to Madigan shortly."

"Questions?"

Both men looked at the three children on the couch. Betty decided it was time to pipe up. "Are we at a motel? Mom and Papa said that since the drive was so long, maybe we would sleep at a motel instead of going to Grandma's house tonight."

"Motel," the older man repeated. His shoulders started to lift, sort of… prickling up. His hair ruffled as though blown in the wind, or by something behind him. "Elizabeth, this is no mere  _motel_. You're inside the tallest building in Pixie World, and what you're seeing here is the culmination of ingenious architecture and magical prowess. I don't care what Chicago says. I had the idea first."

"Did… you say 'magic'?" Betty decided not to question how he knew her name, since he worked for Santa Claus and everything. The name Pixie World was new to her, but maybe it was like Disney World. That would make sense.

Again, the old man looked at her. His blue stare broiled behind his glasses, like he thought her question was a huge waste of his time, but at the same time, he pitied her because she didn't know any better and it couldn't be helped. Betty shifted her shoulders.

"Right," said the old man. "Allow me to introduce myself." With that, he held out his right hand for Betty to grab and shake. "I'm the Head Pixie. Just call me H.P. I run Pixies Inc., and I've been known to help and relocate human children who are lost and confused. As far as you're concerned, I'm a type of Fairy called a pixie. And I'm here to give you a good life. Also, I can make all of your wishes come true. If I want to."

Betty took his hand carefully. His mood was cool, stiff, and a little uncomfortable overall, but his hand was warm. It wrapped around her much-smaller hand like a glove and made her skin tickle, like holding a squirming grasshopper in her fist. She could feel old scars carved into his palm, making his hand rough in weird places and soft around the edges. The Head Pixie, or H.P., raised his eyebrow at her over the rim of his glasses, and moved past the stirring Kenny to Gary on the end. When Betty glanced over, she could see Gary's eyes actually dripping with wonder and excitement.

"Your name's H.P., just like the alphabet?" he asked. "I'll bet no one ever has to ask you how to spell that. My last name's Cabrera, and I have to spell it out for people. Is 'H.P.' spelled with dots after each letter?"

H.P. looked at him. "I like you. Yes, I go by the letters for two abbreviated words, and they're punctuated properly. That's how English works, I'm told."

Gary grinned and let go of his hand. "And you're a real Fairy? Wow, that's awesome. But you're as big as we are!"

Betty twisted around, trying to catch Gary's eye. Why was "You're a real Fairy?" the  _third_  question?

"You can't be a Fairy if you don't have wings," she argued, clenching the blanket in her fists.

"We're Pixies," Sanderson corrected.

"Hm?" H.P. looked down at himself. "Oh, right." Then he did something weird. He rolled his left sleeve as high up as his suit would let him, almost to the elbow. Betty hadn't expected tattoos since he looked so strict in his fancy clothes and everything, but they were there. A blue flower with a snaking green stem wrapped around his wrist. A fat brown squirrel crouched underneath the petals. Further up his arm, a blue fox sat poised to dig a hole while a rat kept watch on his head. Nearby, a piggy bank nosed at the crook of H.P.'s elbow. Those were just the ink designs that Betty could see, and that was just his lower arm. He probably had more on the rest of his body. When Gary saw them, he shot Betty a bug-eyed look like,  _Do you SEE those?_

 _Big deal,_  Betty thought.  _My dad has a lion. AND a lightning bolt._

H.P. brushed his arm with his hand. Glittery pink and purple dust fell from his skin and gathered in a tall heap on the floor. As he brushed, he said, "The magic dust and sweat on my skin makes it difficult for humans to recognize me as anything other than what they expect to see." Then he bent down, and took the glinting powder into his cupped hands. "Fortunately, the short-term cure for idiocy is simply exposure to and comprehension of intelligence." And he blew all the powder into her face.

Betty coughed. The dust stung her eyes. She blinked it away, fighting against her tears, as Kenny mumbled and began to wake. When she found she could look again, the Head Pixie was still in front of her.

"You don't look any different to me," she croaked. Not a lot of the dust had gotten into her mouth, but it still dried her tongue. The old man in front of her was still short and square. H.P. certainly hadn't shrunk so small that he could fit in her hand, which was what Betty would have expected from a fairy. Now that she was looking closer, though, she did notice that H.P. looked even older than she had first realized, his forehead taller and his wrinkles deeper. And instead of blue, his eyes were a light, dusky lavender. Otherwise, she saw nothing very special about him.

And then she did.

It was the tattoos first. The blue fox, black paws above the hole, actually  _was_ digging its way beneath H.P.'s skin. Right now! As Betty watched, open-mouthed, it finished its tunnel and vanished inside with a flick of its tail. The rat dove after it. They were gone. A petal from the blue flower drifted down on the squirrel's head. The squirrel sprang into the air and scrambled from H.P.'s wrist up to his elbow. The piggy bank was alive too, trudging around and poking its snout at the gray hairs on the old man's arm.

"Oh?" H.P. straightened, then turned around. Betty choked on her own gasp. "How about now?"

His turning movement was a fluid one, like a ballerina in a music box. Probably, this had to do with the fact that his feet weren't actually touching the floor. After being shocked with the living ink creatures on H.P.'s skin, Betty would have thought she was ready to face anything. But nothing could have prepared her for this.

Wings.

The old man had  _wings_. Real wings.

 _Big_  wings.

He had four of them, pale orange in color and laced with stripes of brown all the way to the ends. They ended in ruffled, vaguely square tips. Two of his wings were long, and almost batted at Betty's nose. The other two, shorter, beat just as fast, all in a blur. She realized then that H.P. and Sanderson weren't really  _standing_. They were floating in place, hovering by rapidly beating their wings. The constant whirring, buzzing sound that she had thought was the heating system must be coming from them.

Betty looked at Gary, to find him looking back at her. No. He didn't have wings. He was human. Like her. At least she wasn't alone.

"Wings?" she managed as H.P., with a hint of smugness, faced her again. "You really have… wings?"

Gary lifted his finger at her. "Did the dust make it so she could see your wings? I could see Mr. Sanderson's wings as soon as I woke up. Why didn't I need dust?"

Mr. Sanderson looked at the pizza in his box again. "I guess that's because… you ate magic pepperoni from magical pigs and cows."

He didn't sound very sure. H.P. sent him a questioning glance, which Mr. Sanderson responded to with a defensive shrug. Gary looked down at the half-eaten slice still clenched in his hand. "I wondered why it was purple."

Purple pepperoni? Grown-ups with wings? What was going on here?

Was this a dream? Her dreams weren't normally so life-like. She could feel Kenny sitting up, rubbing his eyes and trying to sort out where they all were. She could feel the quilt in her lap, and focus on every spiky orange hair on Gary's head, and every button on H.P.'s suit. She couldn't remember ever dreaming of fairies or pixies before, so why would she start now? As Sanderson set the pizza aside on the desk and H.P. blew glittery dust in Kenny's face, Betty massaged the sides of her head and hunkered deeper in the couch.

"W-where are my Mom and Papa?" she asked.

* * *

In this game of life, consider Player 7. Tall. Polite. Vain. Don't let the brown freckles fool you, for he isn't broad-shouldered like the other freckled pixies. Were he to enter a fight, brawn against brawn, it's almost certain he would come off the loser. Such circumstances beg the question: Is he pacifist because he truly believes himself to be one, or only because he knows he could never win?

See how now he sits in the Head Pixie's private break room, which he wasn't invited to enter today, but also wasn't prevented from doing so. That's not his steaming  _#1 Boss_  mug he raises to his lips, nor his ottoman he's elected to sprawl his feet across.

… Oh. We set this scene just prior the Head Pixie's intrusion into the conscious lives of Gary Cabrera and the Lovell children, you must understand. Upstairs now, young Gary is just waking, uncertain and hungry. Sanderson sits beside him on the couch, telling tales of miniature golf courses and pixie visits long ago. Betty and Kenny, reluctant even unconsciously to face the reality of their parents' unfortunate deaths, sleep on in restless torment at the other end.

Player 7 rests, the perfect feline, with lazy posture in luxurious seating. His wings, as long as his namesake, dangle over the arm of the chair. Player 7 even brought along a friend to the Head Pixie's private break room, if you could call him that. Quivering little fellow; Mister Addison Rosencrantz is his name. Rosebud there is small, just under a thousand years old. The soft brush in his hand is no cure for the jerky movements of his arm. Nonetheless, Player 7 (Vice President Longwood, really) permits the little pixie to proceed with the wing brushing. Who knows how many days will pass before he can sneak in another chance?

"Rosebud," Longwood says, out of nowhere. Rosencrantz jolts up his head. The wing brush freezes in mid-air.

"W-what?"

Longwood keeps the mug in his hand, tapping the tip of his pointer finger against the handle. He swirls the mug, and the hot chocolate inside swirls with it. Of course it's hot chocolate. It's getting late, and sugar is a temptress guarding pleasant memories. He takes another sip, then smacks his lips around the taste.

"Rosebud, do you believe in passion? Love? Lust?"

"U-um… H.P. says Pixies don't–"

"H.P. isn't here," Longwood snaps. The hot chocolate leaks a small puddle between his legs. Perhaps he doesn't notice his insignificant error. Nevertheless, he crosses one foot over the other at the ankles. First he huffs upwards at the ceiling, and then he adjusts his wings with a flutter and lowers his chin again.

"I'm in love, Rosebud."

It comes out bluntly. The smaller pixie continues brushing the older one's wing, and tries to show interest in the conversation without raising his attention from his work. Finally Longwood notices the chocolate puddle, and swishes it to the floor with several flicks of his hand. "Dear dust," he says, "I'm obsessed."

"With yourself?"

"With children."

Rosencrantz doesn't know how to respond to this. Rosencrantz is pretty sure Longwood has confessed to something illegal.

"Not like that," Longwood clarifies, always one step ahead of the younger pixie and gleaning his thoughts. With a thought and a twitch of the ballpoint pen he uses as a wand, he  _ping_ s a small picture into his free hand. The frame is dented, the glass shattered long ago. It's not even a real photograph–only a crayon drawing. A child's crayon drawing. Longwood hunkers into the chair anyway, caressing the picture with his eyes while holding the shaking chocolate mug to his mouth. He says, "I'm obsessed with that–that  _shadowman_  you used to call a mentor."

"Sanderson?" Rosencrantz presses him cautiously. This does not sound less illegal. Pixies are a close-knit species, after all, and nepotism policies would forbid romantic relations among coworkers even if incest didn't. Yet to his confusion, Longwood squeezes his eyes shut, and he nods.

"I saved his life, Rosebud. You wouldn't remember. It was long ago. Centuries before you were born, I traded the one I held most dear to save that snotlick's life, and I pine after him even now. You didn't know Aspen. But I did. I had the chance. I could have chosen to save what I wanted most. What does that make me feel?" Here he turns, and affixes Rosencrantz with a scalding lavender eye. His sunglasses are slipping. The hot chocolate spills again, across his white shirt this time. "What do you call an emotion with a name you were never taught, and are forbidden to try and learn?"

"Ignorance, sir?"

Longwood ignores this bit of clever humor. "H.P. is bringing three children to Pixie World today. Three human children."

"I heard about that," Rosencrantz tells him politely.

"Rosebud?" His tone is anxious now. Longwood shifts, and it rustles his wings. "Sanderson mentored you, and look how you turned out. Hopeless, clueless, bumbling."

Rosencrantz tightens his teeth. Snarky retorts pound against his mind, but he holds them within, biting his tongue and biding his time.

"Sanderson mentored you, and your place turned out to be in laundry. Knowing that, H.P. wouldn't let Sanderson look after three human children. Would he?"

Longwood isn't sure. After all, he holds with philosophies borrowed from the Anti-Fairies, of destiny and fate. If Rosebud was working in laundry, then that was where he was meant to be at this time of his life, and no part of Sanderson's influence led to or could have led away from that. Longwood believes this, and Rosencrantz knows that, and it doesn't help his quiet wounds heal.

"I guess not," is his light reply.

"I thought so," Longwood says. Inwardly he weeps at the thought. He has watched how Sanderson behaves around children.

All goes well for our Player 7, entitled to his momentary pleasures after that fine game of taxes he most recently played, until all at once, he pricks his ears. A voice through the baby monitor that connects to H.P.'s office downstairs–he'd know that voice even underwater (and has heard it there before, exchanged magic mouth to mouth to survive ocean depths on occasions he'd rather forget).

Longwood despises the wing-jerk reaction screaming at him to rush to its owner's side. It drips from his skin in sweaty splashes. The mug shoots to the side table, sloshing with dangerous froth. Instantly his feet are off the ottoman and he is in the air. His fingernails screech along a chalkboard that doesn't exist.

Rosencrantz pulls the brush, and his head, away from the sudden whirl of wings. "Longwood?"

"He's home," he observes, his mind fainter than his voice. As graceful as a flitting petal, he takes off in a  _ping_  of white dust. The scattered remains drift around the room as Rosencrantz sets aside the wing brush and tentatively slips away while the vice president is gone.

The children.

Where are Sanderson and the three human children?

Longwood can't  _ping_  directly into the Head Pixie's office due to the amount of safeguards placed around it, so he lands himself outside and waits irritably for the executive secretary of Pixies Inc., Mister Luke Madigan, to grant him entry. Madigan does not. The Head Pixie is downstairs, he says, and has forbidden visitors while he's away. Longwood offers grudging thanks and sees himself out, even knowing the four people sitting on the other side of the office door.

The bells hanging in the tower of the Water Temple begin to count out nineteen chimes. As he floats down the hall, it suddenly occurs to Longwood where he'll likely find the Head Pixie at this time of evening if not in his office. Longwood found his king a man of many faults, and where else should he be just after a successful kidnapping plan, but bragging to a dear rival?

Longwood hovers on his toes a moment more, then  _ping_ s not just down to the first floor of Pixies Inc. headquarters, but entirely outside. Had the cloud of dust been capable of humor, perhaps it would have spelled out the words  _Sobriety and piety_ in his wake. He reappears in a puff several dozen wingspans from the Temple's door. His ears tell him before any of his other senses that he's guessed his boss's location correctly.

"Absolutely not!" cries a shrill voice no Pixie, Fairy, or Anti-Fairy could ever fail to recognize. Longwood bobs closer to the source, at the same time keeping back so as not to intrude. As he drifts about, he pays specific, intent concentration to any sensation that might cross his skin or tongue. The Head Pixie, through his strength and authority, projects a sort of aura that even a younger, simpler pixie like him can get a read on. Once he crosses the aura's outer ring, his boss will sense his magical energy and know he's there, waiting politely for a signal to approach. Such is proper etiquette in the cloudlands, and accusations of eavesdropping are not pleasant blotches to see on one's permanent record.

A warm cinnamon and banana taste fills up Longwood's mouth. He's floated within the Head Pixie's circle of awareness, although his boss gives no sign that he's noticed. He's busy talking himself up, as he often is. A smaller figure stands in the Temple doorway, cross and blue in the face. Literally. Like just about all Anti-Fairies, underneath his light blue Temple cloak, Anti-Cosmo wears blue fur instead of smooth Fairy or Pixie skin, and right now it's beginning to prickle and puff around his neck.

Longwood can't help but wonder when Anti-Cosmo last took a real shower. He hopes the High Count hasn't just been bathing in the Water Temple's sacred pools. Sure, Anti-Cosmo belongs to Sunnie, the nature spirit who represents Water on the Fairy zodiac, and he  _is_  on pilgrimage this week to pay his respects before most other Anti-Fairies return from migration and swarm the place, but he doesn't have a right to mess with the natural order of things.

"Anti-Cosmo–"

"I said, absolutely not." Anti-Cosmo stamps his foot. His leathery bat wings are folded along his back and he isn't flying, which makes the gesture that much more effective. "I gave that neck of the woods to my dear wife as a present for our 793rd anniversary. It isn't for sale."

The bells stop ringing at nineteen chimes. It won't be long now, and the little bell-ringer will scamper down to interrupt their conversation, which will really put the Head Pixie in a sour mood. A car horn blares nearby. Pixie World only has one city, and is bordered on three sides by a drop of empty sky and one side by woodlands. The World itself is small enough that cloudcars are a silly investment, but enjoyment is infrequent for pixies, and some of them have learned ways to write the acquisition of one off as a business expense.

"All right," says the Head Pixie, always cool and collected. He thrusts his hands into his pockets. "I won't buy it. Yet. But, I'd still like to make use of the location for the summer."

Longwood makes the mistake of skipping a beat of his wings. Instantly, Anti-Cosmo's ears flick in his direction. After a few long seconds, one of them swivels back to the Head Pixie. "I don't really care what you want it for. The fact remains, it's one of the few locations I can visit without having to wonder if you and your horde will interrupt my peace and quiet unannounced. Believe me, I know what pixies do to trees."

"Only one pixie," H.P. says.

Longwood senses Anti-Cosmo's frown even from here. "You only want to send one?"

"One pixie. Two human children."

"You said you had three human children."

"I'm not concerned about the third."

Still, Anti-Cosmo shakes his head. "H.P., Camp Wannahurtastranger was built to give  _Anti-Fairy_  children a place to visit while their parents are out on spring migration. If you're serious about this camp thing, you really ought to be enrolling your humans in Camp Ridawingedhorsie with the goody-goody Fairies. They'll fit in better there."

"I know what I'm doing."

With a grimace, "That's what concerns me."

The ringer of the Temple bells, a young anti-fairy drake with wild curls of black hair tucked in front of and behind his ears, appears silently behind Anti-Cosmo's wing. Anti-Cosmo places a hand on his head, clamping him in place. Longwood watches the child flinch and start to strain, his mouth open and obviously sending out small chirps of sonar.  _Ping. Ping. Ping._  Anti-Cosmo does not break eye contact with the Head Pixie for a long time, even when the younger anti-fairy flashes his claws and rakes them at his Temple cloak.

Then he releases the child's head. The younger anti-fairy stumbles, catches his footing, and tries to streak past the Head Pixie without getting intercepted. He does not make it. H.P. catches him by the arm, and holds him there until the struggling anti-fairy looks up at him, blinking dark crimson eyes rapidly behind his glasses.

"Walk," the Head Pixie says. "Don't run."

"Yes, sir."

He licks his hand and pushes it through the anti-fairy's tangled hair before he lets him go. The young drake walks, and does not run, vaguely in the direction of the hotel intended specifically for Anti-Fairies (and, on sparse occasions, Fairies too) who journey to Pixie World to see the Water Temple. Longwood narrows his eyes, but takes care to show nothing on his face as the anti-fairy deliberately bats his shoulder with a wing as he pushes past. He knows the young drake will linger in Inkblot City's square for some time first, watching for any careless foot that might tred on a crack in the sidewalk, or break a rear-view mirror on some poor sap's cloudcar. There were always going to be small prices to pay for rebuilding the Water Temple here following the original one's destruction just after the war.

Anti-Cosmo and H.P. are silent. Then, on some shared signal, they turn their backs and part ways, Anti-Cosmo inside the Water Temple, and H.P. in Longwood's direction. Longwood opens his mouth, until he realizes his boss is marking notes in a pocket calendar. He waits. Another car horn blares, three times.

The Head Pixie takes a moment to finish his work, then puts the pocket calendar away. Longwood continues to hover, unmoving apart from his beating wings, as his boss picks up the pace and starts to tail back towards the city square. Skyscrapers and apartment buildings loom against the stars.

"Why are you on my heels after-hours, Longwood?"

As with most of the Head Pixie's acknowledgements, it's permission to speak and a threat rolled into one. Longwood bobs his head, resisting the urge to straighten his bowtie. It may be crooked, but H.P. might not call him out on it if he thinks Longwood hasn't noticed. Adjusting it would double as a confession of negligence and sloth.

"It's about the children, sir. I've finished stocking the grocery store and checking over the internship reports for the season, and I'm available to take on a new project. I think I have the right to request the next task I'm assigned to."

"Right" is a loaded word. Longwood waits a beat, respectfully allowing his boss to correct him if he's wrong. H.P. continues floating down the sidewalk. He doesn't appear impressed, but boredom is the pleasant ticking mechanism of the pixie mind. Longwood goes on.

"Permit me to state my credentials, sir. You know I spent a century raising baby genies alongside Anti-Cosmo as part of his conservation program. I'm good with young inquiring minds."

"The arrangements have already been taken care of, thank you. Sanderson is waiting for the children to wake up while Ralston runs a DNA test on each of them. Keefe and Springs are finishing the paperwork. I sent Wilcox to collect some of Garrett's and Elizabeth's possessions from their homes. Bayard is out somewhere organizing our efforts to distract the Fairies before they start to suspect this was a targeted job. Hawkins is preparing a place for the children to sleep tonight; I doubt an hour was enough for them to rest well. Sanderson will bring them there if they start to tire out."

Hawkins is the name of Sanderson's roommate. Longwood and Wilcox also share in the four-pixie apartment, but Hawkins… is the name of  _Sanderson's_  roommate. The children are with Sanderson now. They've been brought to a new location, and they are unfamiliar with the concept of walking off the edge of a cloud and plummeting down to Earth. They must be supervised at all hours, then. Hawkins is preparing the place where they will stay the night, and Sanderson is bringing them over. Coincidence? Longwood is a believer in fate and luck, not coincidence.

Instead, there's a pause.

It's a long pause.

No.

It's longer.

…

…

…

…

"I'm confused, sir. You're entrusting the safety of these human children to Sanderson?"

His boss continues down the sidewalk, his head tilted up as they near the Headquarters building, where the majority of Pixies Inc. operations are run day to day. His penthouse also happens to crown the top, which means he's almost home for the night, which means that Longwood is rapidly running out of time. "He'll be perfect for the job."

Longwood's fingernails curl into the palms of his hands. Fortunately, as most pixies do, he chews his nails regularly into neat, flat coins of keratin. They aren't sharp enough to pierce his skin. He wishes they would.

"H.P.," he says, haltingly, unsure. "After what happened between Sanderson and Aspen, you still intend to give Sanderson full authority and legal guardianship over all three of them? They're children."

"That's correct. Excellent observation."

This pause is shorter. A little. Then Longwood flies in front of his boss, and blocks his path.

"Sir, I had hoped that because I actually have a steady girlfriend, she and I would be your preferred guardians for the human children. That way, we could act as appropriate parental substitutes. Children should have mother figures and we have one available."

H.P. says nothing for a moment. Before the divorce, Longwood had a mother figure. Then he didn't, and life was hard. Using his own girlfriend as a reference in this bitter auction is both desperate and daring. It's meant as a challenge. These two pixies long ago mastered the art of such conversational subtleties.

"Longwood, how well do I know you?"

"Ever since I opened my eyes, sir."

"Even before then." H.P. takes note of every non-movement on his vice president's untwitching face. "Don't you think I'm aware of Naelita's existence and skill set?"

"I expect so, sir."

H.P. draws out the moment as the realization sinks in like a gizzard stone in Longwood's stomach. "If I thought that you and Naelita were more cut out for this job than Sanderson is working alone, don't you think I would have come and asked you to act as guardians instead of him?"

At this, Longwood bends his head, his wings jolting every few beats. He sinks a little closer to the sidewalk. "H.P., I–You owe me for Aspen."

"I owe you for what you chose to do to Aspen?"

Longwood looks away. It's an insult. He shouldn't have asked.

"Sir, it wasn't a choice. I had to. It was his fate. If I'd–If I'd tried to protect Aspen, Sanderson would have died. And…"

This pause is tenser.

"And that's your fault. Isn't it, sir?"

"Look at me when we're having a conversation, Longwood."

He doesn't want to. Yet he does. H.P. is hovering very seriously, with his hands planted at his waist just behind his hips. His glasses reflect the glint of the nearest streetlight. Longwood forces himself to believe there's an honest drop of concern in the older pixie's eyes.

"Longwood," he says. "If I gave you a human child to raise, how attached would you get to it?"

He can't give the correct answer. Something of which they're both aware.

H.P. keeps one hand in place, but lifts the other and points the thumb towards his chest. "These humans are our tools, not pets. You can't raise them as surrogate children. I don't need you to teach them to be strong and independent. I need Sanderson to teach them how to be loyal and patient. I can't have your empathy standing in our way. Longwood, you are squeamish and intense. I'm not looking for a pixie with your kind of demanding attitude to see this project through. This is not your department."

Longwood's fists grow tighter, not looser. He does not raise his head. "I let go of Aspen for you, H.P."

"Pretend that Sanderson is Aspen, and start enjoying his company," the Head Pixie says. Stepping off the sidewalk, he circles Longwood and continues on his way.

"Sir," he says, whisking after his boss, "please."

"What's the issue? Sanderson and Aspen have a lot in common. They both enjoy cheese and crackers. They both play with their food."

 _Now_ it's insulting. "Sir–"

"They favor gingertie wands. They do enjoy their music."

"Please–"

"And this one's a gimme, but you know how fond they both are of water."

_"Stop it!"_

Longwood isn't aware that his own ipewood wand is out of its sheath until it's pointed at the back of his boss's head. H.P. slows. He turns, the metal star on the dangling tail of his hat ringing out in the silent night like a bell on a bobtail. He's amused, not upset. When his eyes glint, they seem to cast a sheen across his glasses as a whole. Longwood suddenly realizes his mistake, and jerks his hand down.

"Sir, I–I didn't mean to–" He grabs for his face and pinches the bridge of his nose. " _Ní larki…_ Please don't make jokes about water at Aspen's expense, sir. He gets night terrors. Calming him down is embarrassing. And if Sanderson ever knew Aspen was still…"

"Longwood?"

"Sir?"

H.P. reaches up to the right side of his collar and pulls it down to expose a small cut of his neck. The gesture is unmistakable. Longwood presses his teeth together. He sighs in his head, but floats obediently over to his boss's side.

He apologizes with his tongue, as insects do. Two quick licks against aging, freckled skin that mean  _I'm sorry_  in an ancient Fae language, and wound his pride a great deal more. When Longwood pulls his tongue away, the Head Pixie catches him by the bowtie and jerks his head back to eye level.

"Don't forget your place."

"No, sir."

"My break room. First thing tomorrow. I have a sweater I want you to put on. Turtleneck. That will keep your pheromones under control."

"Yes, sir."

H.P. lets him go, and heads up to his office to find Sanderson and the human children. Once his boss has left, Player 7 pretends to exit the scene. Not in the direction of Rapunzel Tower, where his apartment sits at the top floor. No. Instead, he decides to pay a visit to Ralston and see if he's yet deciphered the DNA from the blood samples at the crash site, all along the way mulling over many subjects like silence and regret.

Player 7 has been code-named a rook, and although neither he nor any other participant in this game of life knows it just yet, he is about to force his king to castle.


	3. Ginger Snaps

_Year of Water, Winter of the Sunlit River_

_Friday, December 27th, 1991_

* * *

Gary knew what a job interview was. Aunt Sissy (Okay, so she wasn't  _really_ his aunt–he just pretended because he didn't get to see his real family much) had come into his life by way of a job interview. She ran the concession stand Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and every other Saturday. Gary remembered listening outside the tan building's door while his dad interviewed hopeful adolescent after hopeful adolescent, trying to find exactly the right people to manage every aspect of the golf course and the surrounding area. Hiring personnel who really cared and wanted to keep the place clean and orderly had been so important to him.

Dad said that sometimes, if you waited in the Snack Shack long enough after-hours when the sky grew dark, you could sometimes hear the nature spirits running and playing among the decorations on the course, or splashing through the water traps. You couldn't go looking for them, though, or they'd disappear in a puff of dust. In the mornings, the golf clubs would be polished and the golf balls would be organized in the dispensing tubes by color. If you left out sugary candy, the candy would vanish, but so would all the trash in all the trash cans. Sometimes his dad would leave coins and bills behind, tucked away in the holes of the course like gifts. If they didn't disappear one night, they would the next, usually on Thursday. It was like magic.

Once, Gary had asked to go with him. He remembered lying on the dusty Snack Shack floor in his sleeping bag, curled up against his dad's side, as they ate popcorn and candy and listened to the sound of snapping fingers,  _thwack_ ing golf balls, and eerily dry laughter for hours. Gary wasn't a night person–he always got tired as soon as the sun went down. Staying up so long had been exhausting, but it had been worth it. Still, the next day he fell asleep in class and Mom was kind of mad about it, but Dad had just laughed and ruffled his hair. " _Come on, Ellie, they're nature spirits. Not everyone gets to listen to them scampering around. They've chosen to bless our golf course with their presence. Let the little man get in touch with his heritage."_ Gary didn't have many good memories of his dad, but that night was one of them.

Even though their separation had been final for two months, it wasn't supposed to be permanent. Gary was going to live with his mom, but the plan was to spend Thanksgiving with his dad, and maybe some other holidays too. But not anymore. That was so weird, thinking about how he'd never see his dad again. Not even for Thanksgiving. Dead in a car accident, H.P. had said. That sounded about right. It had been snowy, and his dad wasn't that good of a driver. He always got distracted looking out the windows at the animals, or at Gary when he tried to have a conversation in the car.

H.P. had delivered the news calmly almost twenty whole minutes ago, his hands folded on his desk and his face solemn and serious, while the rest of them sat on the white couch on the other side of the room, and Sanderson watched from his place by the cool square bookcase with the pizza boxes. Gary still wasn't over the fact that Mr. Sanderson was more than 250,000 years old, and an eight-year-old boy like him was already a foot taller. He was almost taller than H.P. was.  _Almost_. He only looked taller because of his gray Santa hat, that's all.

Kenny had understood "Your mom and dad won't be coming back", even if most of the explanation was lost on him, and he'd rubbed his eyes with both fists as the tears started to prickle up. Betty hadn't cried. She'd been too shocked to cry, or maybe she didn't understand what death was. "Oh," had been her weak response. Her blonde eyelashes fluttered. Her fingers touched her face, waiting for those tears to come. They would spill over later, Gary knew, when she wasn't so scared and in denial and finally accepted that everything that had happened was true. Maybe at night, when she was in bed. That's how it worked for him. He never cried. Well, almost never.

Maybe Gary took it better. Maybe it helped him to watch Betty's face instead of worrying so much about his own parents that he drove himself crazy. He guessed his dad was dead before H.P. even turned his attention on him, just because, well, if it happened to Betty and Kenny and they were here in H.P.'s office getting this talk, it had probably happened to him. Gary hadn't known what to say to Betty when she was clearly stung and frozen (He figured it wasn't the right time to ask if she wanted to be his friend forever now), so he stayed quiet, patting one foot against the wooden floor and waiting for his turn to hear Quincy Tuckfield's fate.

He was right. H.P. confirmed it, and Gary had accepted the blow with an absent nod. Was that wrong? He probably didn't love his dad enough. That was it. The thought filled his throat with guilt, but he couldn't really be mad about it. His dad had decided to give him away, after all. That had been Gary's fate for two months. He hadn't loved his father for three.

Was that wrong? It was probably also wrong to decide one day that your "difficult" child was too much trouble and dump him on a woman you loved for years and suddenly didn't anymore instead. How could people do that, anyway? Totally love someone, and then learn a tiny trait or secret about them and change their mind? That wasn't how true love was supposed to work. That wasn't how it was supposed to work at all.

After waiting a minute for Gary's reaction, H.P. had said, "I expect you'll want to live with your mother now. I can take you there, of course, although I'll have you know–"

"No," had been Gary's instantaneous answer. H.P. paused. His fingers skittered briefly across his desk, hands wrapping around the front edge.

"What?"

Gary had tightened his hands around his knees and struggled to find the words to match his feelings. "I don't want to live alone with my mom. She scares me. I like working in the garden with her, but… she gets mean when it's night. It was okay when I had my dad around, but now it's just going to be me and her, and I'm scared. She's nice and I love her, I guess, but if I live with her, she'll never let me have any friends come over to play, and she won't ever let me go play at anyone else's house either. Even when I grow up, she says she'll never let me take a girl to dinner or a dance. She's always worried I won't come home before dark, even when I  _promise_. She thinks that when it's dark, I'll get tired and lost and hurt. I wanted to stay with my dad, but Mrs. Daisy said I had to live with her because she's my mom. But can't I stay with you instead? You're letting Betty and Kenny stay with you, right? That's why you came to get us when our parents died. You're here to rescue us. Right?"

H.P. had fixed him with a quizzical stare. "You don't even know me."

"I know my mom. I'll take my chances."

"She's an interesting woman, as far as I've observed," Sanderson said lightly, still floating by the couch. His wings buzzed like a bumblebee's.

Betty had started to look really uncomfortable after that, and another splash of guilt filled Gary's belly when he stole a sideways glance at her. She and Kenny had just lost both his parents, and here he was complaining about his mom. Betty probably wished she still had a mom. Maybe her mom was a lot like his. Maybe that's just how moms were.

She and Kenny still had each other, though. Gary didn't have anyone.

"Hmm." H.P. had pressed the tips of two fingers together in front of his nose. "You have a grandmother on your dam's side, don't you? Your mother's mother?"

Gary shrugged. "Yeah, but she smokes too much. And she always tries to give me baths. She says my mom doesn't do a very good job washing and taking care of me, but then she just feeds me super-duper sugary candy and tells me not to worry about being unhealthy and dying, because only sick people die and I'm not sick. I don't like it."

"And you have a great-grandmother."

"I guess. She doesn't live in the USA, though. And she's old. I've never even met her."

Still giving him a little bit of a peculiar look, H.P. had reached along his desk and touched his fingers to a metal bar connected to a small box. "Madigan," he said to the box, like it was a telephone.

The noise that came back had been fuzzy at first, but then a voice on the other side said, "Sir?"

"Let Wilcox's team know there's been a change of plans. Don't contact Elaine or any of the other Cabreras. Or whatever last names they're using; I can't remember them all."

There was a pause. Gary had looked at Betty, who'd looked at him and hugged Kenny tighter. She still hadn't started crying, but her cheeks had turned pink. Even Kenny had stopped rubbing his eyes and now sat quietly at her side. Gary wasn't sure how much the younger boy understood about the situation, or if there was even a difference between death and parents abandoning their kids in his mind. Maybe it was mostly hearing H.P.'s serious tone combined with the word "Mom" bothered him.

More static from the box, but only for a second. "Clarification requested, sir."

"Elaine Cabrera lives in Salina, Kansas." He'd put unnecessary emphasis on 'lives'. "You don't need to do anything. The human authorities will notify her and the others that Gary Cabrera died with his father in the crash. No further action on our parts is required."

Gary had sat back in his chair, breathing out a sigh of relief. For the first time since… Well, maybe just since he'd been introduced to H.P. earlier, he allowed himself to smile. Of course, his mom would be so upset when she heard that he was dead (he wasn't really; this was just for pretend), but what was she going to do about it? Lock him in his room? How could she do that when she thought he was dead? He was going to live with fairies now!

Maybe everything would turn out to be okay after all.

The speaker on the other side of the box paused again, but it was shorter this time. Then, "Are the humans with you, sir? You're being vague."

H.P. had glanced at Gary, who held his breath with anticipation for a long time. "Yes. They're here. And I don't want anyone approaching any of the Cabreras. For any reason."

"Yes, sir." Madigan sounded a little puzzled, but Gary could hear him switching to another method of contact. " _Violet Division, there's been an unexpected change of assignments. Please return home to receive your new orders personally. Thank you."_

 _Anyway_ , that all happened twenty minutes ago, and now they were here. Gary knew job interviews, and this was  _sooo_ clearly a job interview. H.P. sat on one side of his friendly purple desk, and he, Betty, and Kenny each sat in their own chair on the other side. Mr. Sanderson hovered by the couch behind them, his wings blurring together, occasionally fiddling with his pen. The pizza boxes were still there. Betty had finally gotten hungry enough to try some pizza, and Kenny, H.P., and Mr. Sanderson had finished off the rest. Gary yawned and scooted his chair to the side, wishing a warm beam of sunlight would zoom in through the window and fill him with a burst of energy. Only, the curtains were pulled back, and it looked all starry out there. Too bad. The room looked smaller when it was dark. It was okay for Gary since he was a kid, even though he didn't  _really_  like it, but he wondered how grown-ups could fit in H.P.'s office comfortably. Maybe they didn't. Maybe they always bumped their heads on the ceiling. That set off fluttery, panicky thoughts in his brain. He knew he was tall for his age, especially in his family, but still, he hoped he never grew tall enough to bump his head on the ceiling.

Gary made sure to sit up straight and fold his hands in his lap, instead of stuffing them away in the pockets of his dad's red jacket like usual. He sat even straighter than Betty and Kenny, just in case H.P. was really holding this job interview to make the choice between keeping him or them. Nothing personal or anything; that's just the way it was. Good things happened to you when you were on your best behavior.

"So tell me," H.P. said, addressing Gary now, "what are your skills and interests?"

He'd already asked Betty the same question earlier, leading her to proudly respond, "Numbers and horses". Gary had thought H.P. would ask Kenny next, but he didn't. Maybe he thought Kenny was too little. Maybe he didn't ask because Kenny had started to cry softly. That was probably it. It would be hard to answer if you were crying.

Gary wasn't really sure what to think about the other two kids yet. He'd only known them for less than one day, but he thought Betty seemed a little too… outspoken, and Kenny wasn't alert enough. Then again, she was a girl, and he was four. Usually, girls talked a lot and four-year-olds were nervous around strangers, so it made sense.

But they seemed nice, or Betty did at least. They obviously cared about each other. A lot. Like, even though Kenny had his own chair, Betty still kept a protective arm around his shoulders. She spoke to him softly, and made sure he was wrapped snuggly in the huge blue blanket Mr. Sanderson had given him. You know. In the whole entire blanket. But it was okay, because she gave it to her brother instead of taking it for herself. So then it wasn't selfish–it was nice.

Okay. Yes. Gary wished he had a big brother or sister who would make sure he had some of the blanket too, without making it look like he was stealing from a small child. Maybe brothers and sisters made golf take a lot longer and made you had to be patient, but maybe that was why it was so fun, too. Golf wasn't as fun when you had to play it all by yourself. Gary figured that out a long time ago.

"My skills?" Try as he might to sit up straight and be confident, shoulders relaxed, Gary still found himself squirming around in his chair. It was built for people with pixie-sized behinds. He barely even fit in it, which freaked him out a little, and his feet touched the floor weird. The chair had padded mesh arms, but the padding slid up and down like soap when you plucked at it. "Okay. Well. I don't know. I like talking to people and making friends. I'm a good listener. I can play and work outside, even when it's a hot day, without getting tired as fast as the other kids. I always work hard to do a good job and make sure everything is perfect. Whenever I break something, my mom says I'm real good at telling stories. Ooh!" Idea! Gary jerked up his head, kicking his feet against the too-close-for-comfort ground. "Hey, you know what I love? Well, I just  _love_ singing and dancing! I really do!"

Then his grin faded. "But my mom says I'm not allowed to in front of people anymore."

"Communication," H.P. said, nodding his big head. He made a note in the pad on his desk. "Sanderson described you as passionate, enthusiastic, idealistic, and energetic. And yet, I can see that in the presence of strangers, your natural state is to be private and introverted. You must be my INFJ. That's rare for humans. Much more common for Fairies. I'm used to dealing with Fairies. I can work with this. See, this is why you need proper socializing this summer with children your age."

What did that mean? That part about, "Sanderson described you as passionate, enthusiastic, idealistic, and energetic"? Mr. Sanderson could only know that stuff if he'd been spying on him. Gary tried to remember the last time he was "passionate, enthusiastic, idealistic, and energetic" about anything, and winced. Mr. Sanderson must have been spying on him for a long time.

H.P. tapped his pen against one arm of his glasses, using his left hand to straighten his notepad perfectly on his desk. "Hmm. Of course, before we go on too far, we must also address the small matter of how being an INFJ makes you Betty's absolute opposite in personality, what with her being an ESTP. It's beneficial to us that you're still so young. I can make this work, but we'll have to make cuts somewhere. Maybe I'll need Anti-Cosmo to get in on this and make the final call. If nothing else, I can lord it over his head that the two of you were both born in the same year on the Fairy zodiac, and yet your personalities stand on opposite ends of the spectrum. He'll hate that."

"What's ESTP?" Betty asked, leaning forward.

"It's an initialism." H.P. turned his pad around and pointed at the letters with the nib of his pen. "Each letter stands for your score on a spectrum I use to determine your personality type. It's based on your actual personality, not on the year of your birth. You are extroverted, observant, a thinker, and 'prospecting', whereas I've determined Gary to be introverted, intuitive, a feeler, and 'judging'."

"I thought prospectors were old men," Betty said, apparently without wondering if H.P. would be offended by that ( _Oh my goodness, no!_  Gary couldn't help but think) and then she said, "I mean, old men who dig in the ground and pan for gold and stuff."

Fortunately, H.P. didn't seem to take offense at her words. "Yes. 'Prospecting'. That means you're flexible and good at improvising. As a judger, Gary is more decisive. These are both good traits in different ways, and can be put to use in the right circumstances."

While Betty studied the letters, Gary scanned the rest of the page for his name. It was at the top. Next to it, H.P. had written,  _Deep thinker. Hesitant to trust. Verbal talents in English grammar and music. Attentive to deets. Systems thinker. Searches all faces in a social setting to gain context of moods like an Anti-Fairy. Poor relationship with mother. Eager for friends. Introduce to Verona and Rosencrantz. Gardening with Jardine. Unaffected by Principle of Observation. Dysolfactya?_

Those last few words were a mystery. When he looked up, he saw the Head Pixie idly observing him from the corner of his eye. Gary forced an embarrassed smile and dropped his gaze again, trying not to fly into a flushing panic. If there was one thing he absolutely hated, it was getting caught doing something he wasn't supposed to be doing. He  _hated_  feeling caught.

"Communication is an excellent skill, Cabrera," H.P. said, bringing his attention back to Gary. He turned his pad around again. "One of the finest. Really. After all, you're bilingual, aren't you?"

"Uh…"

"You look bilingual." H.P. pointed the end of his pen between Gary's eyes. "How do you say 'We're Pixies' in Hispanic?"

Gary blinked. "Uh. I don't know. I don't speak… Hispanic. Is that like Spanish? I don't speak Spanish."

"Oh, come on." The old man swatted the pale yellow folder between his notepad and his typewriter. "Of course you speak Hispanic. You're Mexican."

At a loss, Gary glanced over at Betty for help. She stared at H.P. with an offended look on her face. Behind her, Mr. Sanderson dropped his forehead into his hand. "Sir," he said, "if I may?"

"What, Sanderson?"

"Gary has no real ties to Mexico. His father's heritage is Cherokee and Japanese, and while his mother's family did recently hail from Spain, I've picked up traces of Italian and Indonesian blood in there too. If you recall, Ralston is running up a DNA test for exactly this reason. We'll see the results shortly."

"If he's not Mexican, then he shouldn't have a Mexican last name," H.P. grumbled, squinting at his pad. He sighed, then tore the top page off. Placing it next to his pad, he started copying the information onto the new, clean page.

"Spanish," Mr. Sanderson corrected. "And sir, he was born and raised in Kansas under the name Tuckfield. His parents separated just recently. His father's family were more involved in his life, and his mother didn't teach him other languages. Spanish or otherwise."

H.P.  _hmph_ ed. To Gary, he said, "I'll schedule you down to learn seven languages by the time you're twenty-five. I trust you can handle that. Now. Please tell me these other two are American, at least."

"Raised in Kansas," Mr. Sanderson said without taking his hand from his face. "Half a dozen generations back, we could trace their lineage to Sweden. However, for the purpose of relaying the cultural background they're familiar with, they're two Americans raised in Kansas."

H.P. rolled his eyes. "See, that makes sense. Gary, be more American like Betty."

"Oh." Gary had celebrated Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July with his family every year for as long as he could remember (Well, his dad's version of Thanksgiving, anyway). He also lived in Kansas, the very middle of the United States. He'd memorized the pledge of allegiance when he was six. He'd always just assumed he was doing a good job of being American.

"But Gary was born in America," Betty said. "That means he's already American."

H.P. stopped writing. He didn't raise his head, but he did flick his eyes up to stare at her. They glittered behind the lenses of his glasses, reflecting the pale glow of the lamp on his desk. "Betty, which one of us is 744,688 years old?"

She crossed her arms. "Which one of us is actually human?"

Kenny clung to her arm. "I–I am–I am human. Betty, Mom says I am a human bein' like you."

H.P. did not move. He didn't blink either. Gary saw his fingers clench a tiny bit tighter around the pen. "Maybe you don't understand how we do things around here, Betty. I am  _the_ Head Pixie. That means, if I say Gary is Mexican, then you say…?"

"I say, 'Gary, what do you want to be called, and how can I help you feel loved?'"

"Oh no." Gary covered his face in his hands. H.P. was getting frustrated, and Betty was getting frustrated right back. Th-they were going to start fighting. About him. What should he do?

In response to Betty's comment, H.P. drummed his fingers against the desk.  _Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap._ "You're planning to be a thorn in my side for the long haul, I see. I'll keep that in mind when I'm scouting for Christmas presents. Let's try this again. If I say Gary is Mexican, you say, what?"

"Please just agree with him…"

Betty stuck out her pouting lip. "You can't call him Mexican unless he says you can call him Mexican. You don't know  _for sure_  if he's Mexican. Maybe he's not. You have to ask him."

"Betty," Gary whispered. He lifted his hands, palms facing down and out. "It's fine. It's fine. Really, it's okay. It doesn't bother me if he says I'm Mexican."

Betty turned on him with a huff, crossing her arms with a slap of skin. "But he's wrong. You can't be from Mexico if you were born in Kansas. You can't just let him be wrong. Do you want a guy who's wrong to be in charge of you?"

"Oh, goodness." Gary laughed and grabbed her by the sleeve. "Excuse us for a second, please. We're going to talk over here like grown-ups."

"Hey!" Betty protested as Gary yanked her out of her tiny seat. Kenny got up too and followed them.

"When is Mommy coming back?" he asked, very polite and calm about it. "Or Papa? I want Papa to play that game with me. It's that game with the cards."

Gary pulled Betty over to the door that led out of H.P.'s office. It was a little closer to Mr. Sanderson than he wanted it to be, and Mr. Sanderson was probably a spy, but it would have to work. Then he let go of her arm. "Look," he said. He made sure to gaze deep into her eyes. "I know you're really scared about what's going to happen to us now that we, um… can't live with our parents anymore. But H.P. cares about us, and he wants to help."

"Well, he doesn't care enough about you to ask if you're even part Mexican." Betty thought about that for a second. "Are you part Mexican? With your orange hair and green eyes, you don't really look like you could be Mexican."

That made him frown. "My dad's hair is black, and my mom's is blonde like yours, except more red-gold. Maybe it's really supposed to be bright orange like mine and she just uses colored shampoo to change it. Some people do that. And, people from Mexico can live in Kansas. It's not against the law. Anyway, maybe H.P.'s just trying his best. We need to support him." Gary grasped both of Betty's hands in his. Taking a deep breath, he studied her eyes again. They were blue. A very light blue, like robins' eggs, or the clear sky, or that pretty color the toilet water turned when you poured in the cleaner, or other nice things that were blue. "Please don't make him mad, or he might change his mind about letting us live with him, and then we'll have to go live in an orphanage. I really don't want to live in an orphanage. I might have to wait years before I get adopted. I'd rather live with the Pixies right now. H.P. is giving us a chance to prove we're important. I… I don't want you to get in trouble because of me."

"But are you part Mexican?" Betty asked, staring just as seriously into his eyes as he was into hers. "If you're not, then you have to tell him now. Because it gets kind of awkward if you let somebody think the wrong thing about you for a long time, and then you tell them later that it's not true."

"Um." Gary squirmed and accidentally looked away. "My family comes from lots of places." It was okay to say that; it wasn't a lie. "I probably have a Mexican somewhere in my family. I've been called a lot of things, and he's not the first person to guess my parents are from Mexico. He can call me Mexican if he wants to. It doesn't bother me."

"Are you sure?"

"Um." He nodded. "Yeah."

"Gary." Betty squeezed his hands and forced him to look up at her again. "Are you  _sure_  that's what you want? Don't say it's okay unless it's really what you want."

He gave it another moment of thought, trying to remember the faces of all the people in his extended family. There were so many different ones, it was crazy that they could all be related. Some faces were a little bit lighter like his, some were darker, and some were even as light as Mr. Sanderson's and H.P.'s. He had to have someone from Mexico in the mix too, right?

The Tuckfield side of his family had both lighter and darker faces. Most of them were American Indians. His grandpa was… different. He was from somewhere called Japan that he never talked about as much as Gary wanted him to. His grandpa always said his life before marrying his grandma was "the strangest." He had to live in a special camp for awhile. Maybe he was sick; Gary couldn't remember. He just remembered that Nana Euny fell in love with him after he got out when he had no place to stay and no more family in the USA. He stayed with her family and they wanted to be married. He wanted an American name because he was going to be an American now. Or… maybe it was someone else who told him he should have an American name; his grandpa had always skipped past that part too quickly for Gary to be sure. He just knew that Nana Euny said it was okay, so his grandpa made a new last name up, and he picked Tuckfield. You could do that if you were born somewhere else, apparently. Gary had always thought Gray would be a cool last name, because everyone could spell it and it looked just like his first name (or at least his nickname) and it was kind of funny, but his teachers at school told him he was a boy, so he had to keep his last name when he got married. Maybe it was because he was born in the USA. Those were the rules.

Gary missed his grandpa. But after Nana Euny died, he got really confused, and acted like he didn't even know he'd been married. He didn't call his kids by the right names. He talked about magic arrows and birds with arms and all sorts of weird stuff. Gary had visited him a lot since, but it always made his dad sad and angry. His cousins didn't seem to like him very much, maybe because with his scruffy red hair and faint freckles, he looked so different than them with their lighter skin and flowing black hair. Or maybe it was just because he didn't join in with them when they sang, and always hung back feeling awkward about everything. Then Mom started having a hard time getting along with his uncles, so they stopped going.

His Tuckfield family didn't have as many new faces and people as his Cabrera family. They were crazy. The girls from the Cabrera side of his family liked to travel, and they always found someone in a new place that they fell in love with. His grandma lived somewhere different than his great-grandma, and his mom and aunts lived somewhere different than both of them. Then they married someone in the new place, and lived there forever, and their daughters moved away and fell in love with someone new again. This had been going on for longer than even his mom could remember, and it didn't seem to bother anyone that they didn't see each other very much. Maybe they liked living alone like that. It was kind of weird. Gary was sure his Cabrera family would like him more than his Tuckfield family, and he wished they would get together so he could play with his cousins and hear his aunts and uncles tell stories of all the different places they lived.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm Mexican."

Betty just said, "Oh." They sat down in their chairs at H.P.'s desk again. Kenny sat on the floor next to Betty's chair, clenching his hand in her sock. He sucked on the index and middle fingers of his left hand.

"Let's try this one more time." H.P. brought his hands together to make a house with a pointed roof, fingertips touching. "Betty. If I say Gary is Mexican, then you say…?"

Gary nudged Betty's ankle with his foot. He did it softly, so it wouldn't hurt her. She dropped her chin against her folded arms, hunching over the purple desk. "Gary's Mexican," she muttered.

H.P. smiled. "Very good, Elizabeth. You're a fast learner. Now. Gary." The pixie picked up his pen again, and tucked his glasses closer to his face. "Besides not being bilingual, what other skills do you have? You mentioned that you enjoy singing. So does Sanderson. I want to know why I should be interested in your singing abilities when I already have him working for me. Are you any good?"

"I can… sing well," Gary said slowly, scratching behind his neck. His stomach pinched itself into a really tiny knot. "But sometimes when I start, I get too excited. I'm… weird. My mom says I shouldn't do it anymore, or my condition will get worse. My dad says it comes from her side of the family and if he'd have known about it earlier, they never would have had me. It's why I don't have any brothers or sisters."

He didn't finish the sentence:  _And I'm the real reason my parents wanted to split apart in the first place. I know I am._

"Oh? Can you elaborate?" Neither of H.P.'s sentences really sounded like a question. His stare remained super focused on Gary's face. Gary gulped. 'Elaborate' meant 'Say more about'. He looked over at Betty, who was still sulking in her arms. Then he turned his attention back to H.P.

"Um. You know, maybe I can sing for you alone. In private. You can have a personal show. I don't really want to do it in front of Betty and Kenny. Sometimes it gets weird."

"I'm legally not allowed to be left alone and unsupervised with small children anymore," he monotoned. "Anything you can show me, you can show Betty. Remember. You two will be growing up together now. You're a team. There are no secrets between us."

"And Kenny," Betty said, putting her arm defensively around her brother's shoulders.

"Kenny too, of course," H.P. said dismissively.

Gary scuffed his shoe on the floor, then shook his head. "I don't sing in front of other kids anymore. It scares them. And they never let me finish, and then I just look stu… I look like a dummy."

Hearing that, Betty raised her head and turned to look at him. "When you sing? Singing's not scary. At least, I won't think you're scary. I like seeing people sing."

Gary shoved his hands in his jacket pockets and crossed his feet together on the floor. "I dunno… I can't really control the scary part. It just happens when I, y'know… get excited. I can't undo it afterwards…"

"Gary." H.P.'s voice was patient, and kind of bored. Gary had thought earlier that he was just being serious because their parents had died in the car crash, but he was starting to think that H.P. was just serious about everything all the time. He always sounded bored; it's how he was. "Think about it. I am over 740,000 years old. As a pixie, I can fly. I grew up here in the clouds above Earth learning how to control magic. I use magic every day. I am surrounded by other pixies who also use magic every day. There is essentially nothing you could do that I haven't seen before. Really. You can go ahead and sing."

He sounded like he meant it. 740,000 years was a long time. That was older than turtles. Was that even older than the earth? Maybe. But pixies were magic, so they could do stuff like live a long time. Gary stood up and flexed his arms, but he still hesitated. "Well… Okay. But first, I have to warn you not to–"

With a thrumming  _ping_  noise, a cloud of white dust, and a rustle, a sudden short stack of papers appeared in a basket on the Head Pixie's desk. Gary and Betty both jumped, while Kenny started to cry, louder this time than before. The papers just popped out of nowhere. It was just like magic! It probably was magic. H.P. lifted one finger in Gary's direction. "Hold that thought. These must be the results of yours and Betty's DNA tests. I wanted to see this."

Gary sat down again. H.P. picked up the papers, and Mr. Sanderson floated over to look over his boss's shoulder and read what they said. When H.P. started making checkmarks in his notepad, Gary craned his neck a little bit, even though he was worried about what he might find if he looked.

Once, when he stayed out almost until sunset and his mom had gotten even more upset about it than she usually did, his dad had sat with him on his bed and explained that something in Mom's brain wasn't "normal" like it should be. It wasn't her fault, but she was born with something in her DNA that made her crazy. And because she was his mom, it was possible that Gary could have inherited it, and he might be crazy too. Dad didn't say it like that, exactly, but Gary figured those parts out.

So he was just curious to see what H.P. was looking at, and technically, he wasn't really spying on anything. They were looking at his own personal DNA, after all. Plus, Betty was doing it too.

The Head Pixie took his time looking everything over, even the hard to understand stuff that didn't have any pictures. He made notes in his notebook as he went along. Gary waited for him to say, "I'm sorry, I was wrong, and you're not really Mexican", but he didn't. Line by line, H.P.'s finger moved down the page, until at the bottom of a grid with about 50 boxes, it stopped.

"Wait a second. What's that?"

"What, sir?"

H.P. separated the DNA test results, sliding Betty's to his left and Gary's to his right (Kenny didn't have one, probably because his DNA would be so close to Betty's since he was her brother). Once he'd pushed them apart, H.P. touched his fingertips to the sides of his head, and stared down at the two sheets of paper. Sanderson floated quietly behind him. He didn't say he was frustrated that H.P. didn't explain what "that" was, but Gary could kind of tell it bothered him. He could feel the irritated tingles in the air.

"Sanderson. I thought you confirmed that the family hadn't been interfered with. My assumption was that you included all magical lifeforms in that analysis. This won't be as easy if they aren't clean."

"Sir?"

H.P. touched the last box in the grid along the bottom of both papers. There were little squiggly pictures in all the boxes decorated with stripes in black, white, and various shades of gray. Gary tilted his head. Betty's last box had two pictures like that, with the letters XX next to them. Those letters were called chromosomes, and Gary remembered learning in school that that meant she was a girl. Girls were supposed to be XX, and boys were XY.

But the last box in his grid had  _three_  pictures. And underneath them were three letters: XYZ.

Sanderson's wings skipped so many beats, he actually had to land on the floor and grab hold of the corner of H.P.'s desk. "But–"

"It's there," H.P. said. "No arguments. You know what it means."

"That can't be right," Sanderson said, taking off his sunglasses while still staring at H.P.'s pointing finger. "It doesn't make sense. His hair is orange. It's too rare."

They both looked at Gary, their eyes searing like purple sunbeams that came out of nowhere in the middle of the night. Gary bent his head, and stayed very quiet. That hadn't taken as long as he hoped it would. H.P. must have found the part of his brain that was going to make him crazy like his mom when he grew up. What else could it be? And now he was probably going to change his mind about letting Gary stay with him, and dump him on his mom just like his dad did. Oh well. Gary was still glad he'd tried to find someone who didn't care if he was crazy, even if it didn't work out. Otherwise, the not knowing would have driven him, well… crazy.

"Actually," H.P. muttered, leaning his chin on his hand, "that makes perfect sense. What color would your hair be if you didn't have a tail?"

When H.P. looked away, Sanderson checked behind him as if to confirm he didn't, in fact, actually have a tail.

"Gary," the Head Pixie said, "do you have any heroes? Someone you admire, look up to, or appreciate for their marketable skills?"

It was an interesting question. Gary didn't remember his dad asking this to any of the people who wanted to get jobs at the golf course. He thought about that for a minute. "I like Harry Houdini. His magic was really cool, even though Mom always said they were just illusions, not real magic. He could escape from anything. I read a book about him last year. From the library."

"I'm sure you did. Remind me, what color is your mother's hair?"

"Blonde." Gary pointed at his eyes. "Sometimes, blonde people have hair that's so light, you can't see their eyebrows or their eyelashes. My mom's hair is kind of red-blonde, though. Some people give her weird looks for it, but I think it's pretty. Also, you can see her eyebrows. I think it helps that her face is darker instead of too white."

"Gary, do the words 'Vitamin D deficiency' mean anything to you?"

"Um. That sounds like the medicine I have to take every day. It's one of those hard kinds you're not supposed to bite into, and it has to be taken in the morning with food." Gary felt around in the pocket of his red jacket, then pulled out the bottle and shook it in his hand. It rattled. "This medicine. My mom helps me with the lid."

H.P. rubbed his chin with his hand. "How much do you like water?"

Gary shivered. "I can't swim. Usually I get my dad to get my golf balls out of the water traps." Come to think of it, he probably shouldn't have said that. It made him sound weak, and boys weren't supposed to be weak. Everyone said so. Especially to him. Gary knew he had a gentle and friendly personality, even though he was shy and didn't talk as much as he wanted to. He liked to play with blocks, but he didn't enjoy knocking them down before it was time to clean up. He preferred watching the clouds and making up stories about animals to stealing someone's hat on Hat Day in school and running around with it, or jumping off the swing at its highest arc and rolling around in the woodchips. Sometimes, that made it hard for him to get along with the other kids his age, who usually raced across the playground faster than he could run and didn't care about slowing down for him. He liked playing with toy cars, but didn't care so much for baseball or football, even though his parents had asked him if he wanted to sign up for a team. He'd tried both sports for a year, but he still didn't enjoy them. "Don't act like such a girl" was a sentence he'd grown up hearing almost as many times as the pledge of allegiance. Rephrasing himself, Gary said, "I can do it myself. I just think it's a little gross. There are plants in there. Sometimes my hands get stuck."

"And do you like campfires?"

Campfires? Gary grinned. "Yeah! My family roasts marshmallows every summer. S'mores are my favorite."

H.P. brought his right hand up to fiddle with his glasses. "Okay. Completely random get-to-know-you question. By any chance, are you afraid of small spaces?"

"Deathly. Why?"

"Gnat wings and kelpie dung," the pixie muttered. Swiftly, he snatched up the nearest file folder and batted Mr. Sanderson on the head with it. "You found me a witch with all of the weaknesses and none of the strengths, you dusthead."

"Liking s'mores isn't so bad," Mr. Sanderson protested, shielding his face. "He can learn."

"No hitting," scolded Kenny.

"Why didn't you pick up the traces on him while you were making nice on the couch?"

"I don't know! He doesn't smell like he's half-genie. Check Ralston's report, sir. His genie parent must be further back in his heritage. He slipped under the radar. It'll be on his mother's side, of course. I think I remember Anti-Cosmo saying once that due to the extra chromosome, witch heritage only comes from the dam."

"See, I  _told_  you guys he wasn't Mexican. You should've listened to me."

H.P. swatted his hair with the folder again. "That's really great, Sanderson. You know, I specifically didn't want to get Anti-Cosmo involved. You know how he gets about his genie conservation program. He'll want in on this. I didn't plan to share. Worse, he'll most likely drag Gary away to his castle and lock him up for excruciatingly painful, painful study, and then we'll be down to just the two Lovells. I was hoping for two humans who were genetically diverse, not related. That might help us in another 47 years. I can't multiply siblings. Now, explain how I'm supposed to keep a witch under wraps with Anti-Cosmo floating around here for the week."

Mr. Sanderson ducked again, although it didn't look like the folder hurt him at all. "I'm sure Anti-Cosmo won't figure it out unless someone tells him, sir. He really doesn't smell like a witch, and you, Ralston, and I are the only ones who would've seen his DNA, so–"

"Gary," Betty interrupted. "Are you crying?"

He wasn't, until she said that. H.P., Sanderson, and even Kenny focused their attention on him. Gary covered his face with the too-big jacket sleeves and started to sob as hot, rolling tears slithered down his cheeks and boiled against his skin.


	4. I Sing the Body Aflame

_Year of Water, Winter of the Sunlit River_

_Friday, December 27th, 1991_

* * *

"That kid is hurt," Kenny said, holding Betty's arm as Gary continued to muffle his sobs in the sleeves of his jacket. "That guy hurt him."

"No, I did not," H.P. said. He withdrew the file folder from Mr. Sanderson's head, and hid it behind his back with one hand. With the other, he pointed at Kenny. "Stop. Don't tell people that I hurt children. Okay? That's illegal. I don't need to deal with rumors like that right now."

"W-what's wrong with me?"

"Hm?"

Gary wiped his eyes, which didn't stop all of the tears, and drew in a shaky breath before he asked again. "You're pixies. You're magic. You can do all sorts of things with magic–I saw you. Can't you get rid of that nasty extra chromosome in my DNA that makes me crazy? I don't want to be crazy like my mom."

The Head Pixie's forehead wrinkled. There were lots of wrinkles. "Okay. Who said you were crazy? Sanderson, did I tell him he was crazy?"

Mr. Sanderson looked up from the incriminating DNA report. "No, sir."

"Exactly." H.P. set the folder down and crossed his arms, obviously pleased with himself. "Sure, you're a bit of an anomaly, but let's not jump to conclusions. We can't call you crazy until we get Caudwell in here to confirm it. He does therapy over at Wish Fixers, you know."

Gary didn't know. He didn't look up either. He simply slid one of his feet back and forth across the dirty floor, while Betty watched him. She reached out her foot, and the toes of their shoes bumped. "It's okay," she whispered. "Don't be sad. I don't think you're really crazy."

Instead of trying to make him feel better, Mr. Sanderson was more to the point with the facts. After first looking at H.P. for permission to speak, he took a small piece of wood from inside his jacket. It looked like a pen, but it had a small star on the cap. He swiped it in the air like a magic wand.  _Ping!_  This time, Gary didn't jump when he heard the noise and saw the cloud of dust, although Betty still did just a little, and Kenny covered his ears and briefly howled. Ignoring him, Mr. Sanderson said to Gary, "This is a picture of a genie. I checked the DNA results. You have one of these for a great-great-great-great grandmother. That's four greats."

"Four greats is good, I guess." Even so, Gary stared blankly at the small photograph now hovering in front of his face. It was a boy genie, for some reason, even though Sanderson had said Gary had a genie for a grand _mother._  The genie in the picture had skin a little darker than Gary's, although he didn't have orange hair. His hair was slick and black, and a little long. He had a short beard on his chin, and no legs. Instead of legs, he had a long pink tail like a snake's. He was also surrounded by a huge cloud of purple smoke. The longer he stared at the picture, the more confused Gary got. "So, I have one of these for a grandma? How?"

H.P. leaned forward, wrapping his hands around the edge of his desk. "Gary, when a male genie and a female genie are left alone in the same lamp for a long time–"

Instantly, Betty sprang out of her tiny seat and stuck her fingers in Gary's ears. "Shh! My dad says only kids who grow up with farm animals are allowed to know how babies get made."

"I, um…" Gary felt his face grow hot. Well, hotter than usual. Carefully, he pushed Betty's hands away. "Actually, I already kind of know most of how that stuff works, Betty. At least a little bit. The part about moms and dads getting married because they always want to be together." As she sat again, he ruffled his brow. "So… my parents are genies too? That's weird. I think I would have noticed if they had tails. Will I get a tail like that when I grow up?" Another thought popped into his head. His parents had two legs. "Will I get  _two_  tails?"

"Your DNA records reveal that you're only a tiny part genie," Mr. Sanderson explained. He made the picture disappear with a  _ping_ ing sound and a cloud of white dust. "The truth is, you're mostly human. Only about 1.56% genie. There's so little Genie blood in you that we couldn't detect it straight off, and that's why we had to run the DNA test on you. But in the cloudland legal system, a witch's magical heritage always takes precedence over their non-magical one. To us, you would officially be called Djinn American. You're considered part of the seven elemental Fomorian tribes—since you're a genie, that would make you part of the Fire tribe, specifically—but to keep things easy, we simply refer to you as a witch. That's been the standard term for a magical/non-magical crossbreed for generations. I assume that you noticed the genie in the picture had a pink tail. Blues and purples are the most common colors, followed by pinks, reds, yellows, greens, and finally orange. You're interesting, Gary. If you were a full-blooded genie, your tail would be as orange as your hair. Orange is the rarest color nowadays."

"So it really is in my DNA to be a freak?"

"Not a freak," H.P. put in. "You were just born with a very tiny genetic quirk. So was I. It made me square. There's nothing wrong with that."

"Oh." Gary looked over his shoulder at the door to H.P.'s office, squeezing his knees in his hands. "I guess that's why none of the other kids ever liked me much. I'm not human like they are."

"Could be," Mr. Sanderson agreed, replacing his wand inside his gray coat. "Humans are nasty, prejudiced folk, and they could likely sense the Genie on you. But, 1.56% isn't a lot. That's why I never noticed until now."

Gary slit his eyes. He'd said "never". There was that hint that he'd been spying, again. "So, am I really a human, or a genie?"

"You're both. Your XY sex chromosomes make you human, but that extra one, the Z, is obviously from the Fomorian side of your family. You're a witch."

His fingers tightened into the bottoms of his jacket pockets.

"Mostly human, though." H.P. leaned back in his seat. "With that tiny amount of genie blood in you, I would bet that you're too far removed from your heritage to perform any real magic. 'Witch' is just a legal title we have to bestow on you for tax reasons. There's paperwork we'll need to file. And, I'll need to review a few court cases. Genies, witches, and humans all have a few different rights in the cloudlands."

Mr. Sanderson smoothed down his coat. "Now I'm curious. How do genies reproduce, anyway? Do genies have belly buttons?"

"I have a belly button," Gary said, pulling his shirt halfway up. "But maybe that's just because I'm mostly human." He tried not to feel disgusted about the "M" word. It tasted bitter on his tongue.

Mr. Sanderson turned his head and fixed him with a stare through his sunglasses, like in the two seconds he'd been distracted, he'd forgotten Gary was there. "You said you like to sing."

"I don't know."

"I like to sing too." Mr. Sanderson stayed very straight and formal, as though he were talking about cooking a very fancy Christmas meal with another grown-up. He almost didn't even bob up and down in the air. He just sort of hovered in place. "You should sing now. That will return your distressed mental state to optimal levels. You'll stop crying. That's ideal."

Oh, Gary  _really_  wanted to. Singing sounded so good right now. Nothing in the world calmed him down as much as singing, except maybe writing songs. He thought about how earlier, Mr. Sanderson made it sound like he'd been spying on him for a long time. Did that mean he already knew what was going to happen once Gary started? And he was okay with it?

And yet…

"But my mom says… But sometimes when I sing…" Gary finished wiping his eyes on his arm. "Weird things happen. It's only sometimes, but I can't control it. It's scary?"

H.P. and Mr. Sanderson didn't say anything. H.P. was writing something down, and Mr. Sanderson seemed to be searching for words. Gary looked at his feet again. Then Betty stood up. "I'll sing with you," she said. "What should we sing?"

"I asked Gary to sing," Mr. Sanderson said. "You're not Gary."

Betty flung out her arms, almost hitting Gary in the face. "But he doesn't want to. You can't just make him if he doesn't want to. That's not right."

"Ooh, you know, I think I want to," Gary said, a little softer than he meant to. Carefully, he got to his feet. "Please sit down, Betty. I can do it by myself. But I really might not be very good. I haven't sung in a while."

Actually… this was kind of exciting! Gary let a small smile play out over his lips. When  _was_  the last time he sung? Not for a long time. Mom always warned him that he turned scary when he started singing, and Dad always tried to grab and stop him when he started. But H.P. and Mr. Sanderson were magic, and Betty was nice, and Kenny was too young to worry about things like this. His smile grew wider, and for the first time in ages, Gary felt his shoulders relax. He closed his eyes, and breathed deeply in and out. Then he took off his jacket and folded it up neatly. This would be fun. This would be way fun!

"Well, okay." Betty sat, but this time she sat backwards in her chair, up on her knees with her arms folded over the top. "What song are you going to sing?"

"Um…" Gary started snapping his fingers, trying to think. H.P. and Mr. Sanderson both turned to look at something at the same time, which made it harder to concentrate. "How about… Maybe… I'll just make one up."

"Right now?" she asked in surprise.

"Yeah, let's see. Um…" He cleared his throat, and started up a low-voiced, slower song, kind of like a chant. _"Oooh. Oooh. Oooh_ … _In the clouds there stand some men of myth, and that's who I'll be living with. Ooh. Ooh. I'm not alone, I'll have a friend. Oh, I hope this joy will never_ – _"_

Halfway through the third sentence, Gary froze. He stared at his hand, which was still held next to his face with his fingertips pressed together. Then he glanced up, breaths scratchy in his throat and nose. "Uh-oh. Did it already happen? I didn't know!" Instantly he patted down his front. Okay. Well. His feet were still touching the ground. He hadn't changed any of his body parts, and as near as he could tell, there was still just one of him in the room, not four…

He looked around real fast. Oh no, oh no, oh no. Hopefully there weren't four. Not now. Not again.

"What's wrong?" Betty asked. "That sounds like a good song. Did you really make that up right now?"

Gary grabbed his elbow and held his hand flat against his side. "It's just–my hand, you know? S-sometimes, when I get excited, my hand takes control and goes crazy. I can't stop it. I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry! Wh-what happened? What changed?"

H.P. pointed with the end of his pen at a glass vase sitting on the other side of his typewriter. "These petunias used to be daisies. And that painting on my wall used to be of gray and white snowy mountains, instead of dewdrops glistening on blades of grass."

Instantly, Betty turned to look.

"It doesn't matter," H.P. monotoned. "Much. I'll have Jardine bring me some new flowers. And, I'll get used to the painting. Go on with the song."

Gary swallowed and threw a nervous peek at the picture on the wall, but he did what he was asked. "U-um. I'll just start over. If that's okay."

"Do whatever comes naturally."

That didn't take the pressure away. Gary clenched his fists in front of them, keeping them low and squeezing tight. No more freaking out. He just had to let it go.

"Okay… Let's do this, then.  _Oooh. Oooh. Oooh… In the clouds there stand some men of myth, and that's who I'll be living with."_  As he went on, he started to walk around H.P.'s office. Moving always calmed his nerves, although he wished the window would show a sunny sky instead of one of stars. Way down on the ground, he saw that there wasn't any green grass or dirt, only puffy clouds. Smooth roads led between the buildings, although Mr. Sanderson had said there weren't as many on this side of the Headquarters building as there were on the other. Too close to the edge of the floating cloud island, he guessed. People could fall off the edge all the way down to Earth below, so most of the land on this side of the building had been left undeveloped.

This was going to be his home now. Gary let his eyes linger on a certain building that stood away from the others, connecting to things with a small path instead of a fancy road. Compared to the building he was in now, that one was short and blocky, with rigid white walls and a mostly flat roof. In the middle of the roof was a little tower full of bells. It didn't look like a very interesting building, except for the fact that it had a giant waterfall pouring from the front. A long stretch of lower roof split the waterfall in half so it fell down the two slanted sides, keeping the entrance to the building dry, but it was still much too damp and dreary-looking for Gary's comfort. He suppressed a shiver. The only thing worse than water or being trapped inside a small building would have to be being trapped inside a small building full of water.

Shifting course, Gary moved away from the window, towards the white couch beside the office door. The pizza box, now empty, rested on the middle cushion. He kept his eyes on it, focusing on taking even breaths.  _"I'm not alone, I'll have a friend. I hope this joy will never end. Na na na na. Na na na na! Ooh. Ooh. Her name is Betty, and she seems nice. I think she is as cool as ice."_

"Oh," Betty said softly.

Gary bounced his fingers in the air, counting the syllables of all the words floating around in his head.  _"And now? Now!"_  He slammed his foot down on the floor.  _"Now we're starting, ooh yeah! It's a whole new life I'm starting in the sky. And I'm parting. Mama, please don't miss me when I learn to fly! And I still love you. But I've never been so glad that I'll_ _get away from you."_

They were letting him sing, without interrupting him. Gary wiped his face, refusing to turn back and look at them in case they were looking on in horror. His fingers flexed. It had been so long, much too long…

Raising his hand near his ear, Gary snapped his fingers.  _Ding dong!_ A soft chime of bells filled the air, and he felt his heart warm inside his chest. Both arms went straight out to the sides. Keeping his eyes shut, he spun around in a small circle.

 _"And I cry 1, 2, 3"_ — _Ding dong!_ — _"and it's 1, 2, 3"_ — _Ding dong!_ — _"You have one son, two homes, three paths for now. Mama, please don't try and ask me how!"_

Actually, maybe it wasn't his heart that was warm. When he looked down, Gary realized what he'd done. The shirt he'd been wearing, the one with the roaring green lizard monster on it, had turned into a fancy vest, like the kind grown men wore in the old movies. It was orange, with buttons down the front, before it ended at the bottom in two sharp points. Suddenly he was wearing a tie. It was wrapped sloppily, but he was pretty sure that's what it was. His sleeves had grown out, long and white. The collar was folded down at his neck. Oh. Oh well. Gary let his grin take control. He really liked that monster shirt, but he liked singing way more. Slotting one arm behind his back, Gary raised the other into the air with a swirling motion, like he was about to sweep it to his waist and bow.

 _"Oh! Oh! Ooh, ooh. Oh,_   _I know that I'm a troubled kid, but music stole my heart, it did. It's part of me I can't explain, and lying low just brings me pain…"_

Gary snatched the empty pizza box from the couch and jumped up where it had been sitting. He snapped his fingers. With a quick  _Ding dong!_  the pizza box disappeared. A hat appeared in his hand instead. It was just as fancy as his new orange vest–a top hat, he thought it might be called, round and black with a thick orange stripe running around the bottom. Naturally, he placed it on his head and, half-turning, jabbed his pointer finger towards the ceiling at a slant.

 _"Whoa, oh, oh! And I'm the one who has a say in how I want to live my days! So I'm staying. Oh, oh, Mama, don't be hurt; I have to sing, so do! Your! Worst!"_ Opening his eyes, Gary focused on Betty's face and stretched out his arm. He walked straight off the couch and landed on the floor, making sure to come down on his first foot with a solid slap on just the right word. _"And here I stand. It feels so right to be free. You're sitting there, but won't you stand, and you can share a little dance with me? Whoa! Oh. Oh_ _…_ _"_

Betty was staring at him, absolutely slack-jawed. Even Mr. Sanderson seemed to be at a loss for words. The pen slipped from between his fingers and click-clacked to the floor. Kenny slid off his chair and picked it up, waving it around and saying, "You dropped this. It fell. It fell on the ground."

Gary stopped. "Um." Even though his insides were still jumpy and craving the sound of music, he took off the top hat and held it in front of him. "Ooh, y-you know, I think I'll just be done now, and that'll be all right. I'm just starting after a long time and, um, it's good."

H.P. hadn't raised his head since Gary started singing. He was still writing things in his pad. Gary fidgeted with the edge of his hat, squeezing it until his knuckles hurt and wishing he could turn it back into the pizza box and forget all of this had ever happened. His heartbeat echoed even all the way down in his toes. He shouldn't have sung, or at least, if he was going to sing, he shouldn't have gotten so carried away. His clothes had  _changed!_  By themselves! Well, not really by themselves–he'd helped a little bit. But normal kids didn't change their clothes like that. Now Betty would think he was a total weirdo. Mr. Sanderson and H.P.  _might_  be okay with it, but Gary was just starting to like Betty, and if she called him a weirdo or a freak… Well, that would really hurt most of all. He fought to force the bubbly, swelling feelings inside of him out of existence.

"Your timing needs work," H.P. said, finally finishing with his notes, "and some of your rhymes are too forced. Your uncoordinated dancing would suggest you lose all control of your limbs in the heat of the moment. But you have promise."

"R-really? Does that mean you aren't going to make me stop?"

"Whoaaa, that wasn't scary," Betty said, grinning the hugest smile. She kicked her feet. "That was sweet! You were awesome! That was the best thing I've ever seen anyone do in real life."

"Thanks, Betty," Gary said quietly. He let the top hat drop to the couch and rubbed his eyes with his fists. "Oh my, my, my! That used up lots of my energy, though."

"It's late, and children need sleep," H.P. said, giving Mr. Sanderson a nod. "Sanderson will show you where you'll be staying tonight. We'll discuss how things are going to go for you now that you're under Pixie jurisdiction in the morning."

"And you'll have to do that tomorrow too," Betty burst. "Gary, you sing so good! And you dance like a fairy tale prince, or a butterfly, or a hopping frog. Maybe you can teach me how to sing and dance. We can be a team, and enter contests, and wear pretty clothes, and we'll win first place all the time. You're super good!"

Somehow, bleary-eyed and exhausted though he was, Gary managed a weak smile. "Thanks," he breathed again. He really meant it.

Before Mr. Sanderson could lead them out of the office, however, H.P. grabbed him by the tie and reeled him in close to his face. "Do not. Let Anti-Cosmo. Find out about this. He studied genies at the Academy, and since he created the conservation program he's been breeding and raising them ever since, and he might know a way to exploit the child that we don't."

Gary flinched just watching how close they were to each other. But Mr. Sanderson said, "Yes, sir" without even blinking. When his boss let him go, he smoothed down his suit. "Once I have them settled, I'll organize some pixies who can carefully run file searches on genies in ways that shouldn't trip Anti-Cosmo's senses, even if he's found a way to tap into our systems. We should be able to learn some information we can use to protect Gary from any and all greedy exploitation."

Half a beat of hesitation.

"Yes."

* * *

Gary was the coolest person  _ever_. As Mr. Sanderson walked with them down the very gray and light purple hallway and away from H.P.'s office, Betty found that she couldn't take her eyes off the back of his scruffy ginger hair. Yeah, he was kind of weird, and really shy, but he was so  _interesting!_

"So about how you used Genie magic to change that pizza box into a hat," she said, tugging Kenny after her by the hand. He kept wanting to stop and look at every door they passed. Even Betty couldn't resist peeking through a glass one that led out to a giant bucket of water even bigger than a bathtub on the balcony. "Can you make all different kinds of hats? Or is it that all pizza boxes turn into hats? Or can you only make hats out of pizza boxes? Can you make dresses too, or only fancy suits? I think it would be cool if you could make fancy dresses. Dresses cost a lot of money, but I've always wanted a pretty dress. Can you only change your own clothes, or could you change mine too if you felt like it?"

"Betty, ask your questions one at a time. Gary needs room to think about his answers."

"Actually," Gary whispered, "I don't really want to talk about it."

Betty crinkled her forehead. "Why not? Your powers are so great."

"Well, gee, it's a little bit hard to explain. It just happens."

"When you snap your fingers, though."

Gary put his hands in the pockets of his worn jacket, bundling them tight. "But that's not my idea. I don't ever think about it. I just do it sometimes."

"Well, whatever it is you're doing, you're doing it right. Don't ever stop, okay?"

"Hey," Gary said suddenly. "Why are you holding your arm like that?"

Betty looked down. In all the craziness about meeting magical pixies, the sadness of losing her parents (Which she was  _not_  thinking about), and the excitement of learning that Gary was part genie, she hadn't even noticed there might be something weird happening with her arm. She kept it pressed against her chest instead of swinging it by her side. All of a sudden, when Gary pointed it out to her, the soreness sunk in. It was scraped up and down, maybe rubbed raw by the road or pieces of the car or something? Betty moved her arm up and down, then winced and moved it back. "Uh, I must have hurt it in the crash."

"I'm sorry."

Betty frowned. The soreness was really getting to her now, and she found herself wishing Gary hadn't pointed it out. "Yeah. It's too bad my other arm's not hurting too. I think it would bother me less if they were balanced."

The hallway ended in front of two shiny doors. When Mr. Sanderson pressed a button next to them, it turned yellow and the doors pulled apart. They didn't open like regular doors. Instead, they slid sideways, straight into the walls. Sanderson went through, and Gary went after him without pausing for even a second. But Betty stopped and looked around in confusion.

"Is this where we're staying?"

"No, this is an elevator," Mr. Sanderson said, pushing the wall with his thumb. "It's a compact, mobile room that will carry us down to the bottom of the building. From there, we will walk outside to my apartment building, and take the elevator to the top floor. Until we conduct a little more research on Gary's condition, H.P. and I thought it would be best if we refrained from  _ping_ ing him around until further notice. Genies can be tricky to  _ping_ , especially when they're awake, and we don't want to rupture anything on accident."

"Sorry," Gary whispered.

Betty eyeballed the scary crack dividing the floor. She tightened her grip on Kenny's wrist. "What's  _ping_ ing?"

Mr. Sanderson put out his arm, placing his hand over another crack in the wall where one of the elevator doors had gone. "When pixies use magic, it makes a  _ping_  sound. I could magically teleport us through the air so we get back to my apartment in approximately two and a half seconds, but I won't. Walking or floating back takes longer, is more strenuous, it's more scenic, less expensive, and it's the way Pixies prefer. Exiting a building from the bottom is soothing, don't you think so? I think it fulfills an innate need in our insect DNA to live in a hive."

"I guess," Gary said through a yawn. "But I'd rather fly if I had wings. Flying would be cool." Briefly, his green eyes went misty, like he was wondering if he would ever get to fly someday. Could he? Genies could float, couldn't they? Betty didn't fully understand what a genie was, but if they were magic, they could probably float.

"Oh." Betty pointed at Mr. Sanderson. "Yeah, your pixie magic makes that ringing noise like Gary's bell sound, when he snapped his fingers. It was a cute sound," she said when he got a panicked look in his face. "It was like this:  _Ding dong_. Like a tiny little cowbell."

"Are you coming?" Mr. Sanderson asked. His low, cold voice never, ever changed.

Betty was still reluctant to step into a room that was supposed to move, but Kenny kept trying to hold Gary's hand, so she let him inside and followed, making sure not to step on the scary crack. There weren't any windows in the room. Mr. Sanderson took his hand off the wall. The doors started to slide closed, without being pushed or pulled, like magic. Gary jerked up his head. He cried out. Too late. As soon as the doors shut, he fell to the floor and put his hands over his ears.

"What's happening?" Betty asked, crouching low over Kenny. Was she supposed to do that too? Mr. Sanderson wasn't, but maybe Gary knew how kids were supposed to ride elevators.

Gary didn't sound very good. It was like a tornado came out of nowhere inside his head, mixing up all his feelings in less than a second, and turning him from calm and sweet into loud and squirmy. Already his whimpers were turning to gasps, and then they blended together so Betty couldn't even tell which was which anymore.

"I can't get out! Dad! Dad, where are you? I can't get out! Get me out!"

Just then, the room started to rumble. Betty grabbed the metal bar on the wall with one hand and pulled Kenny against her waist with the other. He seemed more scared by her reaction than he was of the moving room, but Betty wasn't taking any chances. "Is Gary okay?" she asked Mr. Sanderson over and over as he looked down at the writhing child without expression.

"Most genies are afflicted with some type of agoraphobia," he said. "It's actually quite common. Claustrophobia is included in that category. Symptoms of witchhood vary between witches depending on which of the seven Fomorian tribes their magical ancestor belongs to, but this one does tend to be specific for the Djinn."

Huffing and panting, Gary scrambled to his feet and flung himself at the doors. He pounded with his fists, hollering all the while. Betty threw a glance at Mr. Sanderson, but he didn't seem very concerned. At least, not for the first ten seconds. Then he said, "Well, smell what the chupacabra dragged in," and reached out to take Gary in his arms. He wrapped him tight, trying to stop him from struggling. Instead of calming him down, it just seemed to make Gary fight harder.

The elevator slowed down, and the doors opened. Betty blinked. On their other side was a long hallway, with cold white floors and bright yellow lights. It didn't look as nice as the hall they'd walked down when they left H.P.'s office. The elevator really had moved to a completely different place. But Mr. Sanderson didn't let Gary leave. Another guy floated into the elevator, and the doors shut again behind him.

This new boy who joined them was blue. He looked like he was only a little bit older than Betty, though it was hard to tell with magical creatures. He was only a little bit taller too. Like the pixies, he bobbed up and down in the air like a balloon. But he had wings like a dragon or a bat, not a bug. And regular human arms (but blue). Instead of regular human ears, his were pointed like a cat's (and blue). He wore glasses, though Betty had no idea how those fit around his ears. He was even furry like a cat, but he had hair like a human. It was black and curly, and Betty was pretty sure the arms of his glasses were just stuck in his hair, and that was how they stayed on his face. Kenny looked right at him and said, "Meow."

The blue boy looked at the buttons on the elevator's wall, but he didn't push any. The button that Mr. Sanderson had pushed, the 1 at the bottom of a whole tower of buttons on the wall, was glowing yellow. Maybe that's where the blue boy wanted to go too. His ears twisted around at the sound of Gary's struggles. He turned his head, skimming his eyes across Betty's face and Mr. Sanderson's before they actually settled on Gary.

"Is that human okay, Sanderson? He sounds like he wants to get off the elevator."

Mr. Sanderson covered Gary's mouth, and Gary screamed into his hand. He kicked and waved his arms, and probably bit, but Mr. Sanderson stayed as calm as though he were just holding a piece of crinkly paper. "No," he said. "He likes it. Emotional turmoil really brings out the color of his eyes."

Kenny tugged on Betty's sleeve. "I want to tell you a secret," he whispered.

Betty bent her head. "What is it?"

"Um. That boy is blue."

"That's a good secret, Kenny."

The blue boy wrinkled his nose. "Sandy, Sandy, Sandy. I used to struggle like that all the time when someone tried to hold me—still do, sometimes—and when I did, it wasn't because I liked it. Anti-Cosmo always says you need to respect other people's personal space. You know, I can't help but notice that his colors are intriguing. Is he a witch?"

Mr. Sanderson lifted Gary's feet off the floor. Betty ducked so she wouldn't get kicked in the face. "Of course not. Orange coloration has never been documented in a witch before. Besides, wouldn't you be able to sense a magical aura around him if he was?"

"Meow. Cats say meow. Betty, we had that black cat for a little bit. Right? He was old."

"That's right, Kenny."

"Ah ah, maybe so." The blue boy grinned at Mr. Sanderson, showing very sharp fangs like a wolf's that made Kenny suddenly whimper and press his cheek against Betty's waist. "But I can hear the magic running faster in your blood. You're nervous. You're lying! Ooooh, I'm telling Anti-Cosmo!"

 _Anti-Cosmo?_  Betty jolted to attention. Anti-Cosmo was the one person H.P. said  _shouldn't_  find out that Gary was part genie! Even though Mr. Sanderson was good at keeping a serious face, he was obviously having a hard time focusing on both Gary and the conversation at the same time. He was running out of ideas.

"It's because he's half-mermaid!" Betty blurted. Both Mr. Sanderson and the blue boy looked at her. "What?" the blue boy asked.

Betty waved the arm that wasn't sore around in the air. "Yeah! He thinks he's a fish, and that he's in a fish tank. He's just playing–Gary's real smart, and he always comes up with the best stories. One time, he came up with a story about us riding horses in the rain, and then when there was lightning we hid in a cave and fed them apples, but we gave them too many apples and there were none left for us. It was so cold and we were hungry until my dad came to find us in the storm. But that's a different story. Right now, he's pretending to be half-mermaid. Say 'Glub glub', Gary."

Gary continued screaming into Mr. Sanderson's hand and trying to get out of his arms as though he hadn't heard. It was starting to scare Kenny a little.

"Humans have such active imaginations," Mr. Sanderson told the blue boy. The blue boy's ears twitched.

"I  _guess_. But he doesn't sound like he's half-mermaid."

The elevator stopped. The doors opened again. The blue boy swept out first, but not without taking one last, long look at Gary. Betty looked at Mr. Sanderson, wondering if they were going to get out of there now too, but he kept perfectly still until the blue boy disappeared around the corner of another hallway. At least Gary had calmed down a little bit once the doors were open. Mr. Sanderson carried him into the hall, then set his feet on the floor and held him in place with his hands on Gary's shoulders.

"The Headquarters building is a testament of structural ingenuity. In fact, all the buildings in Pixie World are of the soundest craftsmanship. Calm down. We're magic. Magical buildings aren't going to close in on you. They won't fall, and you won't get trapped underneath them."

Gary kept shaking. He looked around, blinking and frowning, still gasping a little bit as he did. His hands were shaking worst of all. He kept running them down his legs, wiping off the sweat. Quietly, and without letting go of Kenny, Betty reached out and took one of his hands in hers. Gary flinched, but he didn't yank it away. Good. Her right arm was her sore one, and that might have hurt.

"Calm down," Mr. Sanderson said again. "We're not in the elevator anymore. Nothing out here is going to hurt you. If anything tried, I would use my magic to keep it away. You don't need fear. It's a worthless emotion. Don't let it control you."

Slowly, Gary settled back to his normal self. He still looked scared, like he might cry, although his face stayed dry. "I don't want to go in there again," he said. "I couldn't breathe."

"Yes you could. There was air."

"It's okay," Betty said, giving Gary's hand a soft tug. She pointed across the hall to a sign that read  _Stairs_. "Next time, you can walk up or down instead of taking the elevator."

Gary looked at the sign, then nodded. He pushed Betty's hand away from his. "Okay. Where are we going now? Through those big doors over there?"

"That's right." Mr. Sanderson drifted over to them, leaving the three children to follow. "Don't step on any cracks in the sidewalk. Especially you, Gary. There will be consequences."

That didn't sound good. "Consequences?" Betty asked curiously.

"It's bad luck. The Anti-Fairies will chase you."

"Anti-Fairies?"

Mr. Sanderson bobbed his head. "You just saw one in the elevator. Anti-Fairies are unlucky. They get hungry for regular food, but they also have a second stomach that gets hungry for negative energy. They tend to cause trouble so they can feed on your bad luck."

Betty blinked. "Really? These Anti-Fairy people have a second stomach? Is that true?"

"Not totally. But we tell small children this because it's easier to understand than the complications of maintaining homeostasis in the universe. I'm sure H.P. will explain Anti-Fairies to you when you're older."

"Who was that elevator person anyway?" Gary asked.

"Yeah," Betty chimed in. "Why was he blue?"

Gary turned on her, looking stunned. "You can't just ask why someone's blue!"

"Well, he was," she said defensively. "What was I supposed to say?"

Mr. Sanderson sighed. When he reached the glass double doors, he pushed one of them open, and held it so the three of them could walk outside. "That delightful flower was Talon Anti-Lunifly. He's…" It took him a moment to find the words. Even when a moment had passed, and they started walking and/or flying down the sidewalk, he couldn't seem to pick the right ones to explain. Finally, Mr. Sanderson glanced up at the sky and simply said, "Anti-Cosmo is Talon's dad. Talon's special. He's very, very sick for an Anti-Fairy, so he spends a lot of time in Pixie World with us. When he isn't out causing trouble, at least. The energy field isn't as clean in Pixie World as it is in Anti-Fairy World, and he doesn't like the activities that we Pixies consider enjoyable, but it's calmer and safer for him to be here than live there. On most days, when he wants to, he rings the bells in the Water Temple every hour to signal what time it is."

"The Water Temple?"

Mr. Sanderson turned and pointed behind them. Betty twisted. Way at the end of the street and over in the puffy cloudy area, she saw a square white building, shorter than the others in the city, that had a waterfall pouring out of a gash high up its front. The bells must be in the little tower at the top, like at the church.

"It's scary," Gary said, at the same time Betty said, "It's pretty."

"Thank you. I designed most of it myself, with some help from Mr. Cinna." Mr. Sanderson turned and floated away again. "Anti-Cosmo lives in Anti-Fairy World, and can't always spend time with Talon. So, he and H.P. take care of him together, and Anti-Cosmo and his wife Anti-Wanda visit him when they can. He's the youngest anti-fairy in existence."

"Oh." Betty didn't think Talon was  _really_  the youngest anti-fairy since he wasn't a baby or anything, but she didn't say that. Instead, she said, "Who is Anti-Cosmo anyway?"

Mr. Sanderson glanced back at her again. "Anti-Cosmo isn't much cause for concern on his own. He's even shorter than I am. And due to his instability, if he starts threatening you one day, you can simply wait him out until he hits one of his emotionally low periods, and take revenge. It requires very little effort. However, he does happen to be the leader of a powerful group of magical creatures called Anti-Fairies. He is also a very good friend of H.P.'s. For some reason. That complicates things."

Gary frowned. He was walking next to Betty, keeping closer to the street than to the walls of the buildings they passed. Betty kept lookout for cars, but didn't see any. "I thought Anti-Cosmo was the scary guy."

"I wouldn't disagree. Anti-Cosmo thinks he's helping."

Maybe Anti-Cosmo was only scary to kids who were part genie. Betty bit her lip and changed the subject before Gary could get too scared. "Talon was a pretty color. He looked soft and fluffy, like a cat. Are all Anti-Fairies blue like him?"

"You can't just assume all Anti-Fairies are blue."

Kenny tugged on her arm. "Cats say meow, and I think that guy was a blue cat."

"I don't know," said Mr. Sanderson. "That's just the way Anti-Fairies are. Just forget about them for now. I'll protect you from Anti-Cosmo. He doesn't scare me. Now, do you see that tall, wide building?"

"Yeah?"

"That's Rapunzel Tower. My bedroom is at the top. I share an apartment with three other pixies, but we've prepared everything so the three of you can sleep in nice beds tonight."

Sleeping in a warm, soft bed did sound nice, but Betty didn't understand why they had to come outside to get to the new building. "Why couldn't we just ride the elevator over there?" she asked. But as soon as she said it, she realized her mistake. She looked over at Gary. "Oh. Sorry. I mean, I know you were scared of it."

He shrugged, avoiding eye contact, and kicked at the ground. Betty tried again.

"Anyway, you could fly us where we're going too, huh, Sanderson?"

"No. And call me  _Mr_. Sanderson."

"I'll bet you could fly us," she decided. "Your wings are really big. Can I ride you?"

Mr. Sanderson opened the door to the Rapunzel Tower's lowest floor. "No. That behavior would be highly unprofessional. Come inside now."

Geez. Who fed  _him_  salt instead of a sugarcube? When he started towards the elevator, Betty stuck out her tongue at the back of his head.  _Nyeh_.

"I saw that. That's also highly unprofessional workplace behavior."

Betty huffed. "Well, you're boring."

"Thank you." Mr. Sanderson pressed the button for the elevator and folded his hands together behind his back. The button started to glow, though the doors didn't open right away.

"I'm not going in there," Gary said, moving to the other side of the room. "Let's go up the stairs."

Mr. Sanderson glanced over at him. "It's a long way to the top floor."

"I'm not going in there."

"All right. You take the stairs, and Betty, Kenny, and I will ride in the elevator. When you get to the top, look for the room with the sign on the door that says  _002_. Knock, and I'll let you in."

Gary nodded. With a quick "'Bye, I'll see you later," he ran off to the door with the sign that said  _Stairs_.

"Shouldn't we go with him?" Betty asked. She didn't climb stairs very much back on the farm, but she knew she didn't like it. Climbing stairs was hard and it made her tired.

"No. That's his choice. Taking the elevator is our choice."

"But he's alone."

"He chose to be alone. Nothing will hurt him in the stairwell. Gary can look out for himself."

 _Ding!_  The elevator doors open. Betty looked inside, holding her arm, then looked at the stairs.

"I want to touch it," Kenny said, letting go of her hand and hurrying inside the elevator. "I want to touch the button."

"I don't know," Betty said. "Let's not take the elevator."

Mr. Sanderson considered her words. "Actually, since Gary isn't coming with us, we can just  _ping_  straight to the top."

That wasn't what she meant. But Mr. Sanderson took the pen from his jacket and flicked it in the air before she could say anything.  _Ping!_

One second, everything was normal. Betty was standing in front of the open elevator, nibbling on her lower lip. But then her stomach twisted, and her eyes grew blurry. She stretched super tall until her feet left the ground, then smashed super flat. Then she was normal again. Was she normal? Betty heard a second  _ping_  and decided to take a chance opening her eyes. When she blinked, they were all of a sudden in a new hallway with purple carpet. Like magic. She stumbled, reaching her hands towards the walls.

"W-whoa."

"That was like flying like birds do," Kenny said, laughing hysterically. When he leaned forward, his dirty blond flops of hair fell into his face. He looked so much like Dad that way, and Betty winced.

"Come in." Mr. Sanderson had opened a door that led from the hallway to another room. It seemed really nice in there. Nicer than lots of homes Betty had seen. First there was the little kitchen area off to the right side, with a white tile floor and pretty cupboards, even if they were so purple they were almost gray. It made the place look clean, but cold. Past the kitchen area, she saw a gray couch and some really comfy-looking chairs. Kenny squealed when he saw them and ran over to flop his face in a furry pillow. A giant TV hung on the wall, and there were three tall windows with the blinds open to let in the starlight.

"Shouldn't we wait for Gary?"

"Don't worry. He's on his way." Mr. Sanderson put his hand on his shoulder and pushed her into the apartment. As she hesitantly obeyed and started to look around more carefully, Betty realized something else.

"Wow. There are a lot of plants in here." Some sat in bowls along the counters, some hung in baskets from the ceiling. All of them were slightly yellow and starting to wilt.

"The multitude of plants give off oxygen so you can breathe. Normally, humans can't stay in the cloudlands for more than a few hours. They definitely aren't supposed to spend the night. However, this is an emergency."

Betty frowned. "But I thought we were going to live here?"

"There's not enough oxygen for you to stay in the cloudlands forever. Tomorrow, we'll take you down to Earth for a few hours so you can get some fresh air. Then we'll find a place on Earth where you can live. Obviously we don't have the arrangements already made. That would imply we planned for your arrival."

" _You_  live here."

"Yes, that's a fact. Duh." Mr. Sanderson unbuttoned his gray coat. When he took it off, he was only wearing his shirt and tie. Somehow, not having the gray coat made the white cloth look really bright, and it was kind of weird to see him dressed like that when he looked, sounded, and acted so boring. Gray fit him very well. "Betty, humans have these organs in their chests called lungs, which fill their blood with oxygen so their heart can pump the blood and oxygen throughout the body. Pixies are different. We don't have lungs. Instead, we breathe magic from the energy field by taking it in through the pores in our skin. The energy field is all around us, and it's always been there, although some parts of the universe have more magic in the field than others. Earth is one of those places."

Betty remembered H.P. mentioning they were in the "cloudlands" near Earth when he'd been talking about her parents. She blinked at the thought, and tried to distract herself with another as Mr. Sanderson started whistling and folded up his coat. "Well, what about Gary? Can Gary live here forever? He's magic."

Mr. Sanderson put the coat on the kitchen counter. "Gary is only 1.56% genie. He has a human body, and he needs to breathe oxygen. Even if he was fully genie, genies are creatures of fire. He would still need plenty of oxygen to survive. Besides that, we don't get as much sunlight in the cloudlands as the Earth does. Genies need a lot of sunlight to be healthy. That's why Gary has to take his Vitamin D medicine."

H.P. had said the word "cloudlands" when he'd told her what happened to her parents. Betty made her mind go blank. She'd had to bury her favorite horse, Blossom, before. Well, her dad had buried Blossom, while Betty just tried not to think about how much she wished she could have gone for one last ride along the road. She knew she would never see Blossom again, but it was okay, because everything had to die someday. Even her parents. Someday, even her. She wasn't going to let it get to her, she decided as she picked at the skin on her arm. She dug into it with her thumbnail and decided she just wasn't going to think about her parents at all.

When Mr. Sanderson turned to her again, studying her intently, Betty wondered for a second if he had read her mind. Then he tilted his head. "Betty, while we're waiting for Gary, I have some information to relay to you."

"Okay. What?"

"Sit down."

Confused, Betty kept watching him as she crossed into the living room area of the apartment and sat down on the couch next to Kenny. He'd gotten distracted with the rug on the floor, which was gray and had a lot of straight white lines running across it. Kenny ran his fingers up and down the white stripes, saying, "Vrrrm, vrrrm," as if he had a toy car to play with. There weren't any toys.

Mr. Sanderson sat down next to Betty, and folded his hands in his lap. "All right. Ms. Lovell, I know that coming to a new place can be difficult. I want to make the transition for you as smooth as possible. You know that H.P. and I rescued you after we saw your parents crash their cars. I hope you understand that we want to help you have the best lives you can. All three of you."

"Yeah?"

"You're under Pixie jurisdiction now. Pixies Inc. is going to help all three of you grow up and live happy, safe lives. It will take time. Years, even. At least a decade, and possibly two. But in the end, you're all going to be happy."

Betty couldn't remember how long a decade was, but it sounded like a long time. She frowned. "Yeah?"

"But, I have to explain something. Gary has to deal with particular circumstances that you don't. That means a lot of people will be giving him extra help for a long time. Sometimes, you might feel like people don't pay as much attention to you as they pay Gary. Betty, you're eight years old."

"Eight and a half."

Mr. Sanderson's face remained stern. "This is your warning, so you'll know what to expect. Gary is going to take up lots of our attention. However, you are not less important than Gary, no matter what anyone else might tell you one day. You are not less capable, or less interesting, or less liked. You are full of passion, energy, and intelligence. You're a bright-eyed girl who loves math, card games, horses, and her brother. H.P. and I like you, Gary, and Kenny the same. We know we can trust you to take care of yourself without getting hurt, and we're proud of you. It just so happens that Gary will probably need some extra help as he grows. He might be asked to do certain jobs that you aren't. Sometimes you might conclude that you are being left out of things. I assume you can be mature about this, and not complain or display jealousy towards him."

Betty shrugged. She reached up to tug on the sleeve of her good arm, wishing the soreness of her bad one didn't annoy her so much. "Yeah, okay." Her parents had told her almost the same thing when Kenny was born. Sometimes he needed more attention than she did, especially back when he was still in diapers and couldn't feed himself, but Betty still loved him. She didn't even know it was possible not to love him. They grew up together. They were family. Not that she was thinking about her parents.

"Good talk," Mr. Sanderson said. He licked his fingers and touched them to her cheek as he stood up. "Put on these pajamas"—he  _ping_ ed up a pink shirt and soft gray pants—"brush your teeth with the yellow toothbrush in the bathroom down the hall, floss, turn out the lights, and get in bed. I'm going to head out and fly with Gary up the stairs, and then put Kenny down."

"All by myself?" Then Betty remembered what he'd just said about Gary. Of course. Climbing all those stairs meant Gary would be tired, and Mr. Sanderson would have to help Kenny  _and_  him get ready for bed. Gary needed extra help with things sometimes. So she said, "Oh, yeah, right. Don't worry about me. I can do that by myself."

* * *

In this game of life, consider Player 8. A king, like ours, but a frosted one. He is small; a man of the books. Strong in legs and wings, but not big and broad-shouldered as our good gray king is. Noble and polite Player 8 casts himself to be, stability is yet a fickle mistress, and at times he breaks and bends. Some days come exhilaratingly high, with passion and sunshine-bound starlight carving paths beneath his sprinting feet. But some days, uncurling from a ball is an effort, and the inner battles leave tired scars beneath his eyes. His queen doesn't think less of him in either state; she is married to her work, to living and doing and cherishing the moments, and he is the most interesting person she has ever set her sights upon.

"It sure was nice a' the Head Pixie t'let us use his private hot tub for takin' a nice long flea dip together," she says, leaning her head against his chest. He is blue, as is she, their fur damp and cold in the brisk Pixie World air. She doesn't mind it. Her king is there to warm her up, curling his arm behind her neck and drawing her in to plant a kiss above her nose.

"Oh, my love, you just have to know how to handle him."

Flea dips aren't a regular occurrence for them, at least not in recent years, but after spending weeks in close quarters with entire colonies of furry blue folk from all over Anti-Fairy World, they really should be mandated. The fleas are nasty enough, and then are the magic-sucking sprites. Killing them off in the Water Temple's pool isn't an option. That's Prince Sunday's place, a sacred place. No. The hot tub on the C-level balcony had been their only choice. Anti-Cosmo tells himself this three times, although he knows H.P. disapproves, and truthfully that nags at him.

But the trick to these sorts of things, Anti-Cosmo has found, is not to request permission to engage in such activities beforehand. Rather, he'd first poured the pesticide mix into the hot tub, and then when the Head Pixie came out for one of his frequent private(?) evening soaks, Anti-Cosmo had turned him down with a polite, innocent explanation and gracious thanks. Of course, H.P. had stalked back inside grumbling, and had wasted no time in the least in exacting his revenge. When Anti-Wanda next dips her head below the water's surface to entertain herself by blowing a stream of bubbles, Anti-Cosmo glances up at the two security cameras that recently  _ping_ ed into existence overhead. Both glare down with uninterrupted scrutiny.  _You were mean to me, so now you get no hot tub privacy._

It mattereth not; his queen is too tempting a jewel to resist, and she loves him so. When she pops up with a splash and he pulls her lips to his, she doesn't resist him; in fact, she encourages it. Their tender moment is finally interrupted by the squeak of a sliding glass door. Anti-Cosmo and Anti-Wanda each flick an ear in its direction, but don't end their kiss until they finish it on their own time. Anti-Cosmo turns first, anticipating the only other anti-fairy in Pixie World to be badgering him for Tarrow knows what, but it isn't him.

It's a pixie. Anti-Cosmo has trouble at times recalling all the pixies by their faces, but they are a largely identical race, and everyone does. This one, however, has red-brown freckles all across his cheeks, which significantly increases Anti-Cosmo's odds of guessing right. Then, too, his hair lies flat at the front of his head, and stands up in scruffy spikes all along the back. He's tall, although thin, like a cobweb twirled around a twig. Most of all, the pointed gray hat floating above his head bears on its end a little silver star. His position is a significant one, and Anti-Cosmo dreads whatever he has to say.

"I say, good man. Aren't there three human children you could be looking after rather than bothering the High Countess of the Anti-Fairies and I after business hours?" As Longwood drifts over, almost hauntingly not bobbing up and down so much as remaining level, Anti-Cosmo does not say anything about the permission he and his wife don't have to be up here. Technically, the Vice President of Pixies Inc., and second in command of the Pixies as a whole, outranks him on Pixie ground.

"That's a matter I intend to discuss with you, High Count." Longwood brings in his wings and touches down with both feet at the same time. The buzzing ends when he folds them away. He leans his crossed arms against the edge of the hot tub, although doesn't dip his head far enough forward that Anti-Cosmo can see the lavender eyes behind his unbreachable shades. His expression remains neutral. "I'm impressed by your ability to obtain privacy on the C-level floor. Congratulations. I'd have expected the Head Pixie to be out here with you at this time of night."

Anti-Cosmo catches the passive-aggressive remark, and squeezes his toes into fists beneath the water. But, he retains his temper, and slides his arm down to Anti-Wanda's waist. "Flea dip."

Longwood looks down at the swirls of white foam in the water. If one isn't in the know, they could perhaps pass for foam. For one instant, his facade cracks. The tiniest inkling of fear peeps out in the corner of his mouth. It's swallowed up again. "Ah," Longwood manages weakly, and takes half a dozen steps back. Anti-Cosmo can't resist the chuckle, though it's more the cackle of a madman than the disguised, muffled laughter of a well-mannered friend.

"He said somethin' about the darling children," Anti-Wanda says, snuggling against her husband's thin shoulder. "How precious. Hon, I wish we had a pup we could coddle over now. I still want a li'l damsel."

"The children." Longwood is distracted by the pesticides now, although he pretends he isn't. "Yes, the human children. High Count, I wonder if you can help me. You and H.P. are… friends."

This line is said with feeling, though not emotion. Even though every pixie has read the Head's autobiography a dozen times, none of them are certain of his true standing with Anti-Cosmo. Longwood understands that it's intimate to some degree, because one time, Longwood saw them holding hands as Anti-Cosmo careened through his castle, dragging the Head Pixie after him and babbling the whole time. If H.P. allowed another creature to take his hand without yanking it back, their relationship must be serious indeed. Longwood has been with his girlfriend, the selkie Naelita, for 9,000 years and counting now. In all that time, he'd only dared to hold her hand three times–and only for five minutes at most before it was always determined by his stutter and flushing cheeks that things were becoming much too steamy for this to go on.

To make matters more confusing, Longwood has also seen Anti-Wanda take H.P.'s hand  _twice_ : Once at the hospital, and once at a mosh pit somewhere in Comet Falls. Briefly, he considers the idea (considers, not entertains it, for pixies do not entertain) of telling Anti-Cosmo his wife hasn't been as faithful as he doubtless believes she is. Anti-Wanda was so fast, she even tried to take  _his_  hand once when he lost Aspen–as if Longwood were as easy to seduce as the Head Pixie clearly was. With Anti-Cosmo still in the room, too. The nerve of that dame!

Then he decides against revealing anything. He wants Anti-Cosmo to stay on H.P.'s good side, and as far as Longwood is concerned, this business of holding hands is just one more offense he's caught his king committing. Those are just the times he was noticed in the act. Who else has the Head Pixie been holding hands with when Longwood hasn't been around to see? How can he preach the flaws of emotional reasoning when he himself engages in such hypocritical acts behind the scenes? And to think, his fellow pixies absolutely idolize the man. Sanderson especially. Is he blind?

"You and the Head Pixie are friends," Longwood says again, refocusing his thoughts. He watches Anti-Cosmo's face for any sign of embarrassment, for after all, Anti-Cosmo isn't a pixie, so if he and the Head Pixie really have been lacing their fingers together in secret behind closed doors, his emotions are bound to bleed through. Anti-Cosmo waves his hand in a spiral. Translating such body language doesn't come naturally to a pixie taught since nymphhood to speak with words instead of motion, and Longwood muses over the interpretation carefully. He is fairly certain that Anti-Cosmo used the swirl to indicate that what Longwood has said about their friendship is "probably true". Longwood goes on.

"I thought I might encourage you to invite H.P. to your castle for dinner. Tomorrow night, if at all possible, before the children get attached to Sanderson. They'll imprint, you know. That will be disastrous for all of us. Of course I admire all of Sanderson's wonderful qualities"—not that he can think of any off the top of his head—"but this is out of his expertise, and I think you'll agree with me, High Count, when I say he shouldn't be permitted to look after children. You remember what happened with Aspen, of course. I trust you can put in a good word for me to the Head Pixie." Longwood steels his wings. "H.P. thinks that Sanderson could raise them,  _Valleysky v. Geraldson._  I disagree. I want to adopt them myself."

It takes Anti-Cosmo a split-second to remember which court case that is, but when he does, he howls with laughter, splashing back in the tub. Even Anti-Wanda snickers along with him, though one might question how much of the conversation she really understands. Longwood stares at them both, cold and offended, until Anti-Cosmo sits up again and wipes pesticides from the places around his eyes with both hands.

"Ohhh, I'm sorry, chap. You actually wish to adopt the human children? That's your grand plan here? And H.P. is in on this idea too? Why, you're Pixies! The Fairy Council would never allow it. That court case is used for adopting godchildren only in extreme cases when no other healthy solution can be found. While I admit to not knowing the entire situation, I highly doubt that Pixies will be preferred as legal guardians over other humans or Fairies."

Longwood clasps his hands behind his back–the Pixie equivalent of a pout. He inches a step closer to the hot tub, and gains enough confidence to lift himself into the air again. "High Count, I've tried talking to him, but he won't listen to me. Could you try to get through to him?"

Anti-Cosmo, continuing to grin, props his elbows up on the hot tub's edge. His wispy wings beat twice behind him, swirling the water as he brings them in around his shoulders. "Oh, give me a moment to understand, now. Vice President, you want that I should place all my plans on hold, host an exquisite dinner party, and spend my night attempting to sway the Head Pixie on a matter of his personal decision which purely affects your company, all in return for nothing? Surely you jest; you're a saucy boy."

Longwood floats in silence for a long moment. Then, with care, he reaches up to adjust his shades by one arm. "I think I can offer you something you want, High Count, sir."

"Haha!" Now Anti-Cosmo is merely toying with him, stringing him along with taunting promises and unfulfilled expectations. "Do you have even the slightest idea how difficult it is to coordinate that much unenchanted food? Particularly on short notice. I am High Count, well funded by my people, but these are not the olden days when the Dagda's bottomless cauldron lay securely in Anti-Fairy hands. No, no, no. While I crave equality for my despised subjects who have been so cruelly locked away in Anti-Fairy World all these years, why, you granting me anything of the sort remains outside of your abilities at the present moment. What, pray tell, could you possibly offer me that should make me want to risk political relations with the Pixies in an attempt to change your dear Head's mind?"

Longwood closes his eyes. "High Count, you can keep one of the humans. Taking two under my wing instead of none is the practical choice."

At this, Anti-Cosmo frowns. "Really, I have no interest whatsoever in–"

"I should mention, sir," Longwood said, cutting him off by raising his hand, head still bowed and eyes cringing shut, "that I spoke with my coworker Ralston as I checked their DNA reports tonight, and the orange witch we just picked up is part genie."


	5. Unfundamental Attribution Error

_Year of Water; Winter of the Sunlit River_

_Friday, December 27th, 1991_

* * *

Sanderson flew Gary up most of the stairs, even though it was highly impractical and inconvenient. He wasn't exactly the largest pixie, and Gary was so big and heavy that the trip was slow and strenuous, but Sanderson only set him down once they reached the top of the stairwell. Gary was still panting from having run up a fair amount of them, and even though he was a pixie and therefore it was physically impossible for him to be "out of breath", Sanderson got down on his hands and knees for a moment to reorient himself as well.

"I'm sorry," Gary managed after a moment of puffing. Sanderson turned his head.

"What are you apologizing for?"

"For being scared of the elevator."

Sanderson thought for only a split second before he said, "Snow makes me less comfortable than my preferred levels of arousal."

"Oh. But it's winter right now?"

"Unfortunately." He rose to his feet, and took Gary's hand to pull him up. "My room is just on the other side of this stairwell door."

So were his fellow pixies. Half a dozen of them were hovering around outside the open apartment door in a disorienting blur of whirring wings and gray suits. They pulled away when they caught Sanderson's scent, revealing Bayard standing there with a wriggling Kenny clamped in his arms. "Hey," Sanderson said, a little snappier than he meant to. Not that he regretted it; he hadn't approved any of this.

Bayard put Kenny down on the floor. "I was just looking at him."

Sanderson kept his expression neutral, but inwardly, he sighed. "Well, don't. The humans need some proper rest, and I can't have you filling their heads with crazy ideas at this time of night. In fact, everything you say to them should be run through me first for the first year of their stay."

Gary stepped out from behind Sanderson's floating leg, reaching out his hand to Kenny. "I don't mind if they talk to me. I'm living here now, and I want to make friends with our neighbors."

"What? Oh, right." Sanderson turned his glare on Bayard (Bayard raised one eyebrow defiantly, his lips twitching in the corner). There he went, almost exposing information about how the Pixies taking three young humans under their wings was a little more planned than they wanted to let on. Upper lip trembling, Sanderson sighed inwardly a second time.

"Fine. Gary." He gestured to Gary. "You may talk to other pixies. These are my roommates, Hawkins and Wilcox. Hawkins, take Kenny inside and put him to bed. Longwood doesn't seem to be around, but he shares our apartment too. Then there's Caudwell, Bayard–"

"I'm Mister James Bayard. Call me Bayard." Bayard moved lower in the air, wings buzzing, and clasped Gary's cautious hand in both of his own. He shook it up and down, almost showing his teeth when he smiled. "I live right next to you in Room 002 with Caudwell, Madigan, and Walters, because Keefe and Springs are two of  _those_  people who can't stand to be apart for long. So we get Walters! It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance, and I hope it becomes a friendship before too long, huh?"

Gary followed the small red bird roaming along Bayard's collarbone with his eyes. "I'm Gary. You have a very neat tattoo, Bayard."

Bayard glanced down at it. "Thanks. I don't have half as many as the boss does, but I like mine all the same. It's a phoenix; ain't she a beaut? I can make you one just like her if you want. Oh! I could make you a spongmonkey!"

"A what?"

Sanderson placed a hand to his forehead, and several pixies around him shifted their wings. "For the love of dust, don't start him on the spongmonkeys. Bayard, we've been over this. Spongmonkeys scare small children and don't sell sandwiches."

"Spongmonkeys are going to be a thing in another ten years! I'm a marketer for good reason. You'll all see." Bayard dropped his arms and shook his head at Gary as though they were both in on some great joke, and Gary was the only one who understood him in all of Pixie World. By Sanderson's calculations, that was probably true. "Or, maybe a dragon tattoo would be more your speed." Bayard tapped the wand at the sheath on his hip. "Just say the word and I can whisk you away to my favorite parlor, tuck. Although word of warning: You want picture tats. Not words. Don't try spelling words. That ends badly."

"Oh, no! Why, I could never! Tattoos are permanent, and they're supposed to hurt. … Well." Gary glanced down at the back of his hand. "Maybe,  _maybe_  someday I'd like to get something that represents my heritage. I'm not saying I  _will_  ever, because I think it would be scary, but–"

Sanderson clamped a hand on Gary's shoulder. "Shush." A frosty chill ran between his wings. Anti-Fairy magic in the air. The stripe of cold whizzed above their heads in under a second, silencing and straightening all seven pixies in the hallway, Bayard included. Genie magic functioned on a different wavelength than that of Fairies or Anti-Fairies, so Gary wouldn't be able to detect the presence of Anti-Fairies himself with his magical senses, although he certainly seemed to pick up on the unease of the pixies around him. He reached out and took hold of Bayard's arm. Bayard was no longer smiling.

The cold coil of magic writhing through the energy field touched down at the end of the hall beside the stairwell door. In a puff of smoke, it materialized into one short anti-fairy swinging a wand of pumice, and one slightly shorter anti-fairy decked out in blue acolyte robes, glasses, and thick black curls.

"Excuse me," Anti-Cosmo said, clearing the air of smoke with his wand and hand together. His eyes flashed across the gathered crowd, and he straightened importantly. "Do pardon the intrusion. I'm here on a matter of business. Is that him? Is that the human drake? Oh yes, he's certainly the ginger of our party, isn't he?"

He'd changed from his Temple robes into the black silk nightshirt he always seemed to wear in Pixie World, when he had an excuse to rest in a horizontal hotel bed instead of roosting upside-down with the thing flopping in his face. But for some reason, his scruffy blue hair dripped wetness across the hallway carpet as he swept forward. That rattled Sanderson's irritation down to the roots of his teeth. He could sense the droplets' warmth in the way curls of steam still flickered around Anti-Cosmo's colder body, and that had  _better_  not be water from the C-level balcony hot tub. There were far too many implications wrapped up in that idea which Sanderson did not particularly wish to entertain. Namely, that Anti-Cosmo hadn't found a towel available to dry himself off with, and would now be holding this against Pixie hospitality for the next decade. In some way or another, this would be coming out of his next performance review, Sanderson was sure of it. He kept himself perfectly unmoving, pressing his palms against his legs, fingers straight.

Whenever Anti-Cosmo moved, he flowed like a creek, every limb so enviously loose and free to drift and swing as he willed. Not stiff and business-like at all. And he always smelled of freshly-cut fruit slathered under chocolate fondue; berries glistening and polyphenol oxidase bright. It took every,  _every_  ounce of willpower Sanderson had in his body not to flinch when Anti-Cosmo's eyes trailed across his face and lingered in a taunting way. A turquoise gem glinted at the neck of his nightshirt. Talon tagged after him, grinning from ear to ear–an especially impressive accomplishment considering how tall and pointed his ears were on the top of his head.

"Oh man, you guys are  _so_ busted."

"He's one of them, isn't he?" Anti-Cosmo asked, tossing his wand to his right hand. He gestured towards Gary with a flick and half a nod, speaking to Sanderson even though his eyes were focused on the child. "I heard the three humans were all staying up here tonight. I want to see him. Let me see him."

Wilcox barred his path, wand tucked away but chin held up. "High Count, this isn't Anti-Fairy business."

Gary slid his fists into his pockets, but Sanderson simply stepped aside. "Of course. Go right ahead, sir. Wilcox, Bayard, let him through."

Bayard looked at him sideways. Sanderson nodded slightly. The two pixies moved back, in silence. Anti-Cosmo was short enough (most Fae were, actually) that he had to tilt back his head to look up at Gary's face. At least until he decided to spread his wings and spring into the air again. Gary pulled his head away. "Ah ah," Anti-Cosmo tutted, sliding his left hand beneath Gary's chin. "Let me see. Hmm."

He tilted Gary's head to one side, frowning at his jawbone. Sanderson watched Gary squeeze his eyelids shut, but when he did, Anti-Cosmo instructed him to open them again.

Talon shifted excitedly from foot to foot. "His eyes are green, Pop. That's not natural for humans, right? Humans' eyes are either brown or blue."

"No…" Anti-Cosmo rotated Gary's face the other way, tightening his claws. "Not necessarily… In fact, green eyes are quite commonly paired with red hair. But this shade of blue-green with  _that_  shade of orange is very…"

He let go and plucked a tuft of hair straight out of Gary's head, ignoring the resulting "Ouch."

"My apologies. What is your name, young chap?"

"G-Gary."

Anti-Cosmo frowned. "That ends with a Y. 'Y' names are always short for something in Genie culture. Eury is short for Eurydice and Ray is really Raymond, Audrey is short for Audrelica, and so on. Do you perchance have any other names?"

Gary looked at Sanderson. "Just Gary."

Anti-Cosmo twitched his ears. "I do hope you wouldn't lie to me, Gary. I only want to be your friend. I can hear it when your heart rate nervously picks up, you know."

"It's Garrett," Sanderson supplied, maintaining his usual even and cool tone. "Garrett Cabrera. The name is Spanish."

Gary blinked in alarm, but Sanderson stayed still. You had to pick your battles, and he preferred to fight ones where he held the element of surprise.

Finished with his physical examination, Anti-Cosmo bobbed back and gave Gary a quizzical look. "Hmm. Most curious. To the best of my knowledge, no one has ever documented an  _orange_  witch before. Your pupils are certainly much smaller than I would have anticipated, so your Genie heritage, if there is any, must be awfully watered down. You're prepubescent, so that makes it difficult to determine whether you're going to develop a few more feminine characteristics of the body. Of course, your age is of no help to me. And you definitely don't  _sound_  as though you could be part genie. You're not at all what I was expecting."

"So he's not a witch?" Talon's face fell.

Anti-Cosmo turned around and floated away without answering. Sanderson's eyes tracked the scrap of orange hair between his thumb and index claw. Talon flew after the older anti-fairy, demanding answers; absentmindedly, Anti-Cosmo said, "Yes, yes, ask your mother," and whisked them both out of there with a wave of his black wand and a  _foop_  of smoke.

"He got my hair," Gary said, his voice quiet. "He's going to test my DNA."

As the other pixies dispersed in silence, Sanderson placed his hand to the small of Gary's back. "I'll see to it that he won't later tonight. He's on pilgrimage to Pixie World this week and has no super fancy tech to read your DNA with. Even when he does work something out, it takes a pixie familiar with the technology at least an hour to run the information through. Anti-Fairies know nothing about electricity or complex machines, Anti-Cosmo especially, so it will take him longer. We have time. First, let's get you down to bed. Are you hungry?"

"No," he murmured. "No thanks. I had magic pizza. Where do we all sleep?"

Sanderson opened the door to Apartment 001 and motioned Gary inside with a flick of his hand. Wilcox followed them in. Hawkins was standing near the counter, messing with his buttons, and must have already gotten Kenny down in the other room. "Kenny will be with Wilcox and Longwood. Wilcox likes to turn into a rabbit, so he'll stay in his hutch tonight. You're down the hall, in my bed. Betty is in Hawkins' bed."

"What?" Gary turned to him and frowned. "Where will you sleep?"

Sanderson gestured to the square couch. "Out here with Hawkins. I don't mind."

Gary's eyes moved from him to Hawkins and Wilcox. "Oh. You can use magic to make a bed though, right?"

Sanderson tilted his head. "I could, but it's tiresome."

"Good thing you're going to sleep, then."

"Yes. Head down to the bathroom over there. There should be pajamas and a toothbrush waiting for you. I'll be there to assist you in just a minute." He frowned at the window. "I wonder where Longwood is. It isn't usual for him to be out at this time of evening."

Gary coughed. "Okay. Thanks, Mr. Sanderson. Tell Kenny goodnight for me, Mr. Wilcox. See you guys in the morning, I guess."

Wilcox bobbed his head. "Later, kiddo."

"I always have such trouble with these buttons," Hawkins muttered, fumbling with the front of his suit.

Sanderson turned to him as Gary straightened his shoulders and wandered off. "I know you do. Here, let me help…"

* * *

As Sanderson had promised, Gary found an orange toothbrush and gray button-up pajamas waiting for him in the bathroom. Everything, except the gray towels beside the shower, was shiny white and perfectly orderly. Gary should have felt crazy out of place being in a magical building and all, but apart from the low ceiling and the tile instead of linoleum floor, he felt pretty much at home. Standing at the clean sink, he could even pretend he had arrived at one of his mom's new fancy houses for the weekend, and just hadn't started unpacking yet.

A trickle of guilt crept down Gary's spine like dripping blood when he thought about his mom. After he took a deep breath and  _almost_  looked his reflection in the eyes, he found himself covering his face.

His mom thought he was dead. And his dad really  _was_  dead. He'd begged to spend Christmas with his dad, and now his mom would be waiting for him to show up at her big fancy house, all alone. Did she have a Christmas tree set up? Did she have presents waiting for him? Presents he would never open now? Gary didn't feel bad just because he wanted presents or anything, but thinking about his mom sitting quietly in her big fancy living room holding a mug of hot chocolate, staring and staring at the twinkling lights, upset his stomach deep down.

Maybe… this wasn't okay. Maybe he should tell H.P. he changed his mind, and he wanted to live with his mom after all. She had a nice house. Gary hadn't seen it yet, but she'd told him on the phone that it was beautiful, with a really big garden that got lots of sun every day. Gary wasn't sure why she needed a bigger and fancier house, since her old house seemed big and fancy already, but he hadn't said anything when she'd told him about it. He couldn't control what happened when he snapped his fingers, and neither could she. Sometimes, Gary knew, they both lost control when they got too excited. Like when they'd visited the circus and Gary got to see real elephants for the first time, and accidentally dressed half the audience like clowns in an instant. Sometimes they lost control when they were scared, like when they found out that guy with the chainsaw in the corn maze didn't actually work there. Sometimes they lost control when they were just too sad.

There was a window on the bathroom ceiling. What were those called? Skylights. Gary slid his hands down to the counter and gazed up through the skylight. The glass was frosted, so there really wasn't much sky to see. But he wondered if his mom was looking out a window right now and wondering when he and his dad were going to drive up through the light dusting of snow. But they weren't coming. She'd only look out and see a police car chugging through the dark to break the bad news.

But if he had the choice, did he really want to go back to his mom? She was nice, but her houses always felt too big and empty for just the two of them to live there alone. Maybe she'd gotten him a puppy for Christmas. Maybe if he told her they were part genie, she wouldn't think their ability to change things was scary. Maybe she'd think it was cool.

But he knew she wouldn't. His mother was a strict woman who preferred dressing in nice clothes to playing outside, and reading thick books to entertaining visitors. Gary didn't mind if she liked those things, but he still wished she'd act like she cared about the things he liked every once in awhile. He didn't know much about the Pixies, but so far, they'd already paid attention to him for longer in one sitting than his mom ever had. That was a good sign, right?

Well. He wouldn't worry about that now. For now, he was yawning and sleepy and ready for bed. After getting dressed, of course. Out of curiosity, Gary checked the back of the pajama shirt collar for a tag. There wasn't one, although he found what looked like a stamp on the fabric, shaped like a little black music note. Hm. Maybe Mr. Sanderson had whipped the pajamas up with magic. The fabric did tingle when he touched it with his fingertips. It felt soft.

"Huh." Gary studied the folded pajamas, then looked at himself in the mirror. He pressed his fingers to his cheeks. He'd already started to forget, but underneath his familiar red jacket, he still wore his fancy orange vest. Fingering his zipper, he sighed. Well. Maybe the next time excitement took control of his body, he'd snap his fingers and his monster shirt would come back. Maybe he'd never see it again. He wondered if Mr. Sanderson could use magic to make him a new shirt that looked just like it. This was a magical world, right? Did somebody make magic-resistant clothes for young witches like him who couldn't control themselves?

Witches.

He was a witch all of a sudden now.

Undressing was difficult. Gary had a hard time figuring out the snaps on his new vest. He shook his head. How did he know how to make clothes that he didn't even understand? But eventually he got them all off, and the pajamas on. Gary brushed his teeth and set his toothbrush carefully beside a fresh-looking yellow one that still had damp bristles and probably belonged to Betty. It was the same color as her hair. He left his fancy clothes in the bathroom, after folding them up at least sort of nice for Mr. Sanderson to find and figure out where to put somewhere. Then he turned off the lights and headed into the bedroom.

"Betty?" he whispered, cracking open the door. "Are you still awake?"

Her voice was half-muffled when she said, "I thought you might like the bed next to the window, but Sanderson said you should have his bed."

Gary looked around the dark room. It was hard to see, but he could sort of make out the shapes of leafy plants all around, including all over the floor and hanging from the ceiling. Across from the door were two simple beds, separated by a wide nightstand with a lamp that wasn't glowing. Betty lay in the farthest one. Her back was facing him, her arms around the pillow.

"Hi, Betty," Gary said, turning down the covers on the closer bed. Suddenly, it struck him that just yesterday, he'd been getting into his bed at his dad's house. And today was the same day he'd been packing up the last of his things. Where were those anyway? Destroyed in the car crash, or had the pixies managed to save them? He tried to remember what might have been lost, then shook his head. He could think about that later. "Wow. Today was crazy, huh?"

"That… that describes it."

Gary climbed into Mr. Sanderson's bed. It was just his size, and the blankets were plain, but soft. He couldn't wait to lay down–his neck had been sore ever since he woke up on H.P.'s couch. "You know, Betty, it's kind of scary to be living with the Pixies now. It probably won't be easy all the time. The magical world might be scary. There might be dragons and all sorts of monsters. I'm really sorry about what happened to your parents… but even though it's sad, I'm glad that you and Kenny can be here to go through this with me. It's nice not having to be alone. I hope we can all grow up together and be good friends."

Betty didn't roll all the way over, but she twisted a little bit so she could see him over her shoulder. "You still want to be my friend?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Gary asked, drawing the covers up to his chest. The room was cold. The whole building was cold. It was even cold underneath the blankets.

Betty shrugged and rolled away. "I dunno. You're all cool and magicky and stuff. I'm just a normal human."

"Well." Gary looked up at a spider plant in a basket swinging above his head. "You know, I'm not reeeaaally that special. Actually, I kind of hope you just treat me like a regular human."

"Gary?"

"Oh?"

All of a sudden, Betty was sitting up with her arms wrapped around her knees. "Do you think I'll still be able to see magic stuff in the morning? What if that dust H.P. blew in my eyes washes off while I sleep, and everything goes back to normal?" She looked over at him, the whites of her eyes accented in the dark. "What if when I wake up, I think all of this has been a dream?"

Gary propped himself up on his elbow. "That's a good question. I don't think you need to worry, though. H.P. said that Fairies sweat magic dust that makes them look like whatever non-magical people are expecting to see when they look at them. But, now you've seen them, so when you see H.P. and Mr. Sanderson again, you'll be expecting them to be pixies, and so you'll still know they're magic."

"But what if I forget everything?" she whispered. "I don't want to forget."

"Then… I guess you'll still have me." He stretched his hand towards the ceiling, opening and closing his fingers. "You could see me before H.P. blew the dust in your eyes, right?"

"Yeah."

"Then we can always still be friends, even if the dust does wash off or something. Even if you stop expecting to see pixies around. You'll still have me."

"Gary?"

"What?" Gary rolled over and squinted at Betty again, who wouldn't look at him. She squeezed her arms more tightly around her knees, making a steep mountain in her bed covers. Her gaze stayed focused on the wall.

"H.P. said he was over 740,000 years old. He's magic. If you're part genie, do you think you'll live that long too? Even longer than me?"

"No," he said quickly. "You heard Mr. Sanderson–even Anti-Cosmo acted like he couldn't tell if I was a witch without a DNA test. There's too much human in me and not enough genie. Everyone else in my family died when they were old."

"Even your witch grandparents and great-grandparents?"

"Um." He looked down at his thumbs. "Actually I don't know."

Betty shifted, making her bed squeak. She lay down again. "Sanderson said orange genies are rare and special."

Gary thought about that. Then he slid out of the bed. There were slippers on the floor, too big for his feet. He walked over and stood next to her. "Betty, look at me."

She did, and Gary pretended not to notice the tears soaking her cheeks and hair. He put both hands over his chest.

"H.P. and Mr. Sanderson are thousands and thousands of years old, but they're not so old that they need canes and wheelchairs to get around, and they aren't blind or deaf, and they still have their teeth. I mean, H.P. has wrinkles and white hair and looks a little old, but he can still move around and do things. They're just regular grown-ups. The only thing is, they age more slowly than humans do. I'm eight years old, just like you. If I were going to age super duper slowly like a magical person instead of a human, wouldn't I still be a baby right now, at age eight?"

"I don't know," she said.

Gary patted her arm. "Hey, we can turn that frown around! Even if it turns out one day that I do age differently than you do, that doesn't mean I don't want to be your friend."

"Really?"

"Why, of course!"

Bolting upright with a gasp, Betty wrapped her arms around him and squeezed him tight. Gary stiffened with a small squeak.

"What's wrong?" she asked, leaning her head back.

"Please get your arms off me," he said softly. "It makes me nervous."

'Nervous' was an understatement. Gary's breath became a knot in his throat. His fingers twisted together, not quite ready to snap but tensing up anyway. He placed his right heel on top of the toes on his left foot and pushed down hard. It wasn't as bad as being in the elevator, but Gary had his limits anyway.

Even in the dark, he could see Betty frown. But, like he asked, she let him go. "Oh. Sorry. Why don't you like hugs?"

"I'unno." Gary rubbed his cheek with his hand. "I just don't like people I don't know touching me like that. When I can't move my arms… I don't know. I feel trapped, and I get scared."

"But we're friends now," she protested. "You don't think  _I_  would hurt you, do you?"

That was a tough question. Gary chewed on the inside of his cheek. "Well, I mean, I guess not, when you say it like that."

Betty pushed some hair behind her ear, then more hair behind her other ear. "What if I just hugged you very softly?"

Um… Gary sat back on his own bed, bracing his hands against his knees. "Oh boy. Ohh boy. My my my… oh boy. Please don't, Betty. I don't like that."

"You don't trust me?" She sounded like it hurt her feelings. Gary shifted his legs, kicking them like scissors for a second.

"I just don't want hugs right now. Maybe another day."

Betty paused for a minute, mulling over his words. Maybe he hadn't sounded as interested in figuring out when "another day" was going to be as he should have, because Betty said, "Okay, then fine." She lay down and turned her head away, cuddling up in her blankets. It was quiet.

"Betty," he said softly, apologetically.

Betty pretended to be asleep.

* * *

Contrary to popular belief, including his own sometimes, the Head Pixie did not hate fun. He actually loved to have fun, and did so all the time. Why, just last Tuesday he'd waited outside Dr. Rip Studwell's office building for over an hour before the distracted doctor remembered he owned a practice and came to let him in the waiting room, where he waited for a while more. It had only taken a few minutes' flirting with the receptionist to get her to let him in the records room, with its forgotten heap of paperwork on the floor, and he'd alphabetized everything in color-coded file folders before lunch. That was fun.

And on Monday, someone (not naming names, but  _Rosencrantz_ ) had broken the coffee machine on the third floor. The resulting chaotic panic called for a strong, cool-headed leader—a hero—to guide frantic pixies upstairs. That was fun.

Then there was Sunday. Anti-Cosmo had arrived in Pixie World on Sunday to visit the Water Temple, and H.P. had slipped Talon twenty bucks to ignore the mortified High Count in favor of the High Countess all day. That was a simple and boring prank, and it was fun.

Today was Friday. H.P. had already orchestrated the deaths of a few human adults and the kidnapping of several children, so he was about ready to retire to his penthouse when he detected the thin trail of smoke rocketing from the Onyx Hotel towards the Rapunzel Tower. The humans were in there. Welp. Unless Anti-Cosmo had taken up cheating on his wife with pixies a hundred thousand years younger than him, he'd have to come out again sooner or later. H.P. positioned himself on the nearest balcony with the starzooka he kept in reserve for situations like this. Skipping stars with it had never been one of his favorite pastimes. Now,  _shooting_  stars, that was fun. And shooting his friends out of the sky  _with_  stars was even  _more_  fun. And when the rapid spiral of smoke flew from the top of the tower again, that's exactly what he did.

The instant the star collided with the trail of smoke, Anti-Cosmo and (Oops) Talon turned back to their natural states thirty feet above cloudlevel. Disoriented and stunned by the incorrect destination, the pair of them pinwheeled all their limbs in opposite directions and plummeted towards the cloudstones below at top speed. Leaning his starzooka against the railing, H.P. took an idle moment to calculate their precise landing points, being sure to take wind resistance and horizontal movements resulting from their rapid flailing into account when he did so. At this rate, Talon's arms would bring him close enough to the street light that his instincts would kick in and catch the top, allowing him an elegant and painless perch from which he could slide down easily. Anti-Cosmo was due to smack head-first into the ground. Hmm.

H.P.  _ping_ ed himself off the balcony in a cloud of dust. This should be good for a little fun.

* * *

"Did he just shoot me?" Anti-Cosmo screeched, beating his wings as he flipped over and over in the air. His wings were fired up and ready to go, but he hadn't prepared for flight either mentally or magically. He may as well have been trying to swim up a waterfall merely by kicking his legs. His hand tightened around his screaming shoulder. "He shot me!"

Granted, he wasn't precisely sure who "he" was, only that using the pronoun "he" in Pixie World seemed as though it would be the best option. At this speed, and arm aching, Anti-Cosmo wasn't aware of much. Only that Talon managed to snag the head of a streetlight with an "Oof!" and that a second later, he himself landed belly-first in a pair of thick arms.

"I see someone's out past their curfew," drawled a horrifyingly, irritatingly familiar voice. It scraped against Anti-Cosmo's twitching ears like rocks in a tumbling machine.

"You shot me," he protested, limp and muttering.

The Head Pixie shrugged. "Get the kid to kiss it better. He's a Breath year on the zodiac, right? So he's got magical healing kisses."

Anti-Cosmo lifted his head. "That's not how it works."

"Sure. And you don't have Water powers."

"We're magic, you gigantic buffoon. We can  _all_  wield power over the elements if we want to."

"Yes. As I have just demonstrated, my favorite element is the element of surprise." H.P. flicked his eyes up to the anti-fairy dangling from the streetlight overhead. His fingers tightened. "Talon, why are you out of bed?"

Talon pointed an instant claw down at Anti-Cosmo. " _He_  was!"

"High Count privileges. Now go to roost. No grown-ups like having kids around when it's late and they want to talk about private stuff."

Anti-Cosmo groaned. Wriggling his foot free, he twisted around and pushed it into the Head Pixie's shoulder. "For Rhoswen's sake, Talon, do as he says. Before he starts pretending to make mushy with me to chase you off."

H.P. looked at him. "Without dinner first? I have class."

"Oh, don't give me that. You are closer to being on fire than you are to having class."

"That's not how zingers work."

"I'll have you-"

"No." Dropping Anti-Cosmo's legs, H.P. mashed a finger to his lips. "Shh. You're done. Talon, go home. My city. My rules."

Slinging out his wings, Talon took off towards the Onyx Hotel with a grumble of, "Adults ruin everything". Anti-Cosmo clenched his teeth together.

"Well, now wasn't this a lovely little reunion you shepherded us all into? Put. Me.  _Down_."

"Sure." H.P. took hold of Anti-Cosmo's ankles and flipped him over with a shake. That did nothing for his stinging arm. The hem of his nightshirt flapped closer to his shoulders. His monocle tumbled from his eye and smacked against the cloudstones.

"Hey!"

"Oh, come on. You anti-fairies are supposed to like being upside-down. Aha. There we are." When H.P. saw the tuft of orange hair fall from Anti-Cosmo's hand to the ground, he released Anti-Cosmo's feet and let him flop over on his side.

"Oof. Ow. Ow. Mm…" How did one even argue with such a dominant figure as him? 90,000 years or more, and Anti-Cosmo still hadn't figured that out. He pushed himself up to a sitting position, slowly, and puffed his cheeks. "So you know why I'm here, I imagine. You realize you just confirmed my witch hypothesis by jumping me like that."

H.P. scooped the scrap of ginger hair up in his fingers and placed it in the pocket of his wallet. He shut the wallet one-handed with a snap. It went into his coat. "I'm aware. But you were going to find out anyway. I enjoy this more."

"You and your power moves," Anti-Cosmo groaned, popping his monocle back into place. At least it hadn't broken. His fingers tightened around his face. "You're so fortunate I'm not the vengeful type where you Pixies are concerned. One of these days, I'm going to demand you show me my due respect, you know. I daresay I preferred you back when we weren't friends."

"You're terrified of me when we're not friends. I'm the worst best friend you have, but at least this way, you know you're under my protection." H.P. reached down and took his chin. "And you wouldn't want to lose that, would you, speck?"

Anti-Cosmo's face grew a little colder. He wrenched his head away, leaving the pixie's fingers clasping open air, and clutched his arm. "Well, if you really think of me as a friend, I need you to stop doing…  _this_. It's incredibly invalidating."

"Noted. Now that you point it out, that was incredibly rude of me. Next time I catch you sneaking around my place of business and messing with my things behind my back, I won't shoot you out of the sky as a form of discipline. Because we're such good friends. You have my word."

"Do I?"

H.P.'s fingers went to his chest. The other arm went behind his back. He bowed, very slightly and never losing his light dusting of a smirk. "As long as Gary and Betty remain unharmed by Anti-Fairies, you're off limits where my magic is concerned. I swear it."

When the word "swear" left H.P.'s lips, a sharp swiping sound went off in the magical energy field around them like a stabbing spear. H.P. couldn't hear it, of course, but Anti-Cosmo was an Anti-Fairy. His people were nothing if not known for their incredible hearing. His eyes widened very slightly. He'd been trained as an acolyte in the Zodiac Temples for half his life. Bound himself to Sunnie, Prince of Water, for what often felt like longer. He knew the Zodii ways, and he knew a magical oath when he caught one.

For one glorious instant, the world around him flashed with colors that belonged on the 23rd Plane of Existence. Luminescent masses of what appeared to be yarn hung suspended in the air around them. Thinner here, thicker there. The glowing threads were clumped especially tight near the two of them, as twirled around their bodies as pasta around a pair of forks. H.P.'s weave was  _amazing_ ,  _obviously_ , because  _some_  people were wealthy where both cash  _and_  good karma were concerned. What the bloody ever. Centuries upon centuries and millennia upon millennia of honest business transactions across all the cloudlands—nay, across the universe!—had granted the Head Pixie the most elaborate karmic weave Anti-Cosmo had ever known. A cape of brilliant pastel rainbows waves washed down from his shoulders like a whirlwind, pooling on the floor behind him in a spiraled river. The white collar, tremendously fluffy and speckled with dashes of black, curled around his neck. Gold and diamond tassels dangled from the front. His spiky headdress captured the perfect desire of a crowned crane. Scooping sleeves reached nearly to the floor. Sentient trails of yarn wrapped lovingly about his feet. Even the clothes underneath his cape were to die for, layered and decorated and bound in whimsical ways. You could practically taste a phoenix-feathered fan fluttering in his hand on a parallel plane of existence.

On top of Pixies Inc., the largest shipping and delivery company known to the magical universe, came the influence of the therapeutic help offered by his family business of Wish Fixers. And on top of that, Anti-Cosmo suspected H.P. had inherited at least half that weave from his ancestors without putting in any of his own efforts at all. Anti-Fairies drooled over all that tasty, bleeding energy whenever he came near (Oh, to be so perfect). Imagine how many sturdy empires across the cosmos he could topple if he bit into the Head Pixie's neck and drained his karma dry.

Sigh. He'd channeled that power before. Once.

Anti-Cosmo himself had given up protesting that his own weave had manifested into a ballgown ages ago. Stupid overpowered tunic. Anti-Wanda said it made him look dashing, and really, so long as he didn't trip over his own frustrating skirts while inside the Temples or if other rare circumstances required him to manifest his weave visually, it didn't really matter, did it? He at least knew how to use the individual threads in combat rather than merely for show. That was one thing he and the rest of his people could lord over the Pixies to date.

As he watched, three cords from H.P.'s karmic weave snapped out and wrapped around his own hands. Yellow for Communication, blue for Acceptance, brown for Devotion, knotting his wrists and H.P.'s together in the energy field like a friendship bracelet. Or a set of handcuffs. The noise and colors faded back into the invisible, intangible energy field less than a second later. If he wanted a longer look, he'd have to nip the old boy's neck. Anti-Cosmo blinked and decided not to bring the matter of what he'd just seen to H.P.'s attention. He tightened his fists. The part of him that had spent so many years working with genies threw his mind into overdrive, scanning H.P.'s words for loopholes. Don't harm Gary and Betty? Which Gary and Betty did that comment necessarily apply to? What constituted as harm? Did being "off limits" from the Head Pixie's magic include teleportation and healing as well? Was that the plural form of "you're"?

H.P. spread apart his hands, looking for all the world like he had no idea what all had just shot through Anti-Cosmo's awareness, and maybe he didn't; not really. Not like Anti-Fairies did. "Okay. You got me. Gary's a witch. Who tipped you off? Bayard? Rosencrantz?"

"… Abernathy."

"Not Abernathy. Mullins? Tolbert? Jake? Smith? Bell?"

Anti-Cosmo wondered how many names H.P. would list off before he got bored. Actually… silly question. He picked himself up in slow motion and tentatively brushed at the soreness in his arm.

"Never mind who squealed, old chap. In fact, no one did. None of your pixies, anyway. Talon passed them in the elevator on their way down, and he told me his suspicions."

H.P. grimaced. His hands lingered in his pockets, thumbs poking out. "However you found out, the point is, you know now. Well. Pitch to me what you are going to do with this information. You have ten seconds."

Anti-Cosmo tightened his grip on his arm. He filled his cheeks, then let them deflate. Somehow, he managed to force his eyes to stay locked with the Head Pixie's. "I wasn't really going to do anything important, I assure you. I was only curious. Why, an orange witch isn't a matter that crosses your path every day, you know. I wanted to know if he might be descended from one of mine."

"Right. Your genie conservation efforts. I figured." H.P. reached into his suit coat and withdrew a folded piece of paper from an inner pocket. "Here. Don't bother spending all night trying to sneak over to my machine with that little bit of Gary's hair. I know your tricks, and you and your wife will find some way to take my pixies out of commission, no matter how many defenses I set up. You're annoying like that. Let me just save you the trouble, and me the expenses. Here's the full scan on Gary's DNA."

Warily, Anti-Cosmo took it. "I know this can't be the real, H.P., or you wouldn't be giving it to me so easily. You haven't the foggiest idea what I'm capable of doing with it."

"It's real. You could have just asked me if I'd already run the results, you know. I was going to hand them over to you anyway; I never intended to hide them from you. I only just found out about his witchhood myself. So, that's the real deal, right there. I trust you."

Anti-Cosmo dropped his gaze to the scrap of paper. He tongued the inside of his cheek. The memory of H.P.'s oath refused to leave his mind. Social convention, not magic, demanded a two-way promise here. After a few seconds of silence passed, H.P. smirked.

"Thought so. The magic of guilt will prevent you from betraying my trust over something as small as a witch."

"Hmph." Anti-Cosmo unfolded the document, flattening the crease against his thigh. "Let me see what we have here. Well." He tapped his claw against the page's bottom corner. "Sure enough, there we are. Three chromosomes, XYZ. If this is legitimate, then he's a witch, all right."

"It's legit."

"Absolutely fascinating. He really is of the Genie tribe, isn't he? Do tell! We'll definitely want to have him documented; you'll enjoy the paperwork on that end. Oh, this is wonderful! An orange witch–Can you even believe it, H.P.?" Anti-Cosmo thrummed his wings. "Why, we could probably sign him onto talk shows and everything, and my program can sponsor him. This could be just the publicity I need to captivate the interest of the masses when it comes to genie conservation! H.P.!" Tossing Gary's report aside, Anti-Cosmo latched both his fists into the front of the Head Pixie's suit coat. "Think of the pizazz! The drama! The merchandising rights! Ohhh, isn't this wonderful? Why, we could procure the funds and efforts to take genies off the critically endangered species list before the decade is out!"

H.P. raised his eyebrow. "First, let go of my shirt. You'll wrinkle it. Then look at how little Genie blood is in him."

"… Oh."

They stood together in silence for a moment, Anti-Cosmo staring half-blankly at the creased paper in his hand. He beat his wings once.

"Hmm," he said. He flipped the paper to the back, then checked its front again. "Well, well, well. All right, then. Until I get a good look at him, it's impossible to determine what level of magic is running in his veins. Even the slightest drop of Fomorian blood can lend itself to extreme powers in witches, you know. Of course, the power level varies by the individual. Has he exhibited any signs that you've noticed?"

"He seems to be some kind of siren. Once he was in the zone, his Genie instincts kicked in and he started snapping his fingers."

"He's a siren!" Anti-Cosmo clapped his hands a few times. "Oooh, in what way? Poetry? Animal whispering? Flirtation? Spontaneous musical numbers? A mixture, or something more? When can I meet him?"

H.P. rubbed his chin. "There was singing and choreography today. I'm not sure about the others. Not poetry. But flirtation would be a welcome trait. I've heard that if you raise humans together after the age of six, they'll fall for one another instead of seeing each other as siblings. I do have a drake and a damsel. Humans multiply young, and multiply a lot within their lifetimes. It's about time I followed in your footsteps and started playing matchmaker."

Anti-Cosmo looked at him, hands still clasped. They started to slip apart. "Oh… You don't know, do you? About male witches?"

H.P.'s expression remained blank, but he tilted his head very slightly. "Don't know what?"

At that, Anti-Cosmo cleared his throat and puffed his cheeks once again. "Um, well… Ooh. If Garrett is an XYZ, then he's a male witch. And having an extra chromosomes tends to lead to certain…" He pressed the palm of his right hand down, bending the fingers on his left hand back. "…  _complications_  in a male individual. An XYZ is likely to exhibit more, ah, damseline physical traits than normal. I'm sorry to say this, but I guarantee you, he's going to turn out sterile. It doesn't matter if you try to pair him with a damsel or not. Witch heritage only ever comes from the mother. The males can't breed. Not ever. No human babies."

H.P. pressed his teeth into his lower lip and leaned forward. "Mmm. That… is not what I wanted to hear. There was a reason I wanted to raise an unrelated drake and a damsel. I had plans."

Anti-Cosmo took half a step back. "You were hoping for the pitter-patter of little feet in the workplace sooner rather than later, hmm?"

"Considering that half a dozen loyal baby humans might have worked to my advantage in another 47 years, yes." He smoothed his face straight again. "How sure are you about the sterile thing?"

"Very sure. At least 99%. There's never been a recorded buck who wasn't. Male witch," he corrected himself, wringing his hands briefly. "'Buck' is a term best saved for actual genies. I do apologize."

H.P. sighed. "That about figures it. Maybe I'll attempt to breed them anyway. It might work. Stranger things have happened."

"Don't get your hopes up. As I said, historically male witches have always been sterile." Anti-Cosmo scratched behind his ear. "But, I suppose there remains the  _slightest_  possibility that he could turn out intact. Fate works in strange ways at strange times, and few things are ever certain. Well, whatever happens, don't force your humans into anything against they don't agree with. If it's meant to happen, it will on its own."

"Sure. I'll just have to make them think it's their idea."

Hearing this, Anti-Cosmo tucked Gary's report into his nightshirt sleeve and grinned. "Ooh-hoo-hoo, that's going to be absolute murder on you, isn't it? Not taking credit for one of your own p _rrr_ ojects for once?"

"I'll manage. Sanderson arranges my to-do list like a crying river, and then I get over it. Was the genie in Gary's line one of yours?"

"Couldn't be," Anti-Cosmo said. "I don't lose genies."

H.P. slid his eyes sideways. "I find it difficult to believe there's a genie flitting around out there that you don't know about."

"And to be truthful, so am I. Nonetheless, I don't lose genies. I'm not the only breeder in this business, you know. Here." Anti-Cosmo whipped Gary's report out again and squinted. "Your pixie tacked on some extra information he researched here. Let me… identify… It has to be… hidden in here… somewhere… Ah. I have to hand it to you pixies, you do keep things more organized than we do. Hmm. Yes. Her name seems to be Crimsona. This section of muddled jargon means she has a deep scarlet tail. She… started out in India, I think. That makes sense. Then her lamp was bounced around in Indonesia and the Philippines for awhile before gradually making its way to… What's the modern name, what's the modern name–Korea! Korea in the last few decades." He rubbed his chin. "Perhaps I should go and fetch her. I desperately need to introduce new genes into the breeding pool of my program; you know how it is. I can take Garrett. Oh, please let me take Garrett to meet her. It's his heritage."

H.P. clicked his tongue once. "I'll think about it. Impressive work with that Crimsona stuff. I totally deduced that much about her myself. Is there any information about why she would have chosen to mate with a human?"

Anti-Cosmo scratched his finger halfway down the page. "This asterisk here suggests she had to. At some point or another, it seems to have been wished."

"Ah."

The two were silent, one with his hands tight around the paper and the other holding them in a link behind his back. Anti-Cosmo glanced up at H.P. again, who grimaced in response.

"Hmm. For a second there, I thought I felt an actual pang of empathy for another person. On further examination, it was just gas."

"Thanks for sharing," Anti-Cosmo grumbled, and rolled the paper up again like a scroll. He tapped the end against his palm. "You know, H.P., while I have your attention tonight, I think I should like to discuss the arrangements for an upcoming dinner…"

* * *

Should she get out of bed? She was so cozy. The blankets were so warm and positioned across her back and shoulder just the way she liked them. If she jumped up then they would shift and she might not be able to get back to sleep for hours. She'd finally found a position where her sore arm didn't hurt so much. And there were so many plants all over the floor. What if she crashed into them in the dark?

How could she get back to sleep, though, when her mind kept rolling over and over back to her parents, dead in the car on the side of the road in the cold December snow? They'd just had Christmas on Wednesday, with its twinkling lights. Mom had sat on the couch while Kenny sucked on two of his fingers, trying to help him open his new present as he shoved her away and protested, "I can do it! Don't help!" He'd finally torn off the wrapping to find a new blue train sitting in his lap. He got a locomotive every Christmas, and two magnetic cars that latched on behind it for his birthdays. And next year he was turning five, so the tiny trains would be upgraded to a whole set of wooden train tracks, with tunnels and bridges and everything.

Betty had gotten a wooden farmhouse from her papa, with twelve horses. He'd carved one every single month just for her. She'd known about a few of them, because she'd caught him a few times and he'd let her pick some of their designs. She had a horse whinnying with its head thrown back, and one rearing up, and most of them running, but one of them grazing quietly on the ground. Some had saddles and some were wild. One horse was a baby with tiny chips of blue eyes.

Were they going to have a funeral? Would they be buried like Blossom was? Would it be raining? Would she even get to go? And if she did, what would she wear? Did she even have any clothes that were all black? Betty tried to picture the faces of everyone who would be there at the funeral. Grandma Bacon, definitely, and Auntie Janice, and Grandpa Bacon only if he had to be.

Was Kenny okay? Betty couldn't believe that Mr. Sanderson had made her and her brother sleep in different rooms. Yeah, she was eight now, but why was she sleeping with Gary when Kenny was her brother? She was so cozy in bed, but maybe she should get up and go check on him in the other room, just to make sure he was okay. He was probably scared to be with so many strangers, especially without her there to sleep with him. Betty didn't know if he really understood that their parents were dead, as in  _gone_ , and she really wished she and her brother had had some time alone to think about it.

Could she sneak past Gary to the door without waking him up? He  _sounded_  like he was asleep, breathing softly in the other bed, curled up with his blankets only half on him and one of his knees almost hitting his nose. But if he started asking her questions about herself or how she was feeling or if she was okay, Betty didn't think she could handle it.

Would Mr. Sanderson see her if she got up? What would she say if he asked her why she wasn't asleep? Would he understand that she was worried and be nice? Or would he send her back to bed without letting her see Kenny? Was Kenny even awake? He'd napped the longest on the couch, and he didn't usually sleep well at night when he napped. Or what if he was almost asleep, and then when she went in there, she accidentally woke him up? What if he was doing okay right now, but then she tried to tell him about what happened to their parents, and he started crying, and woke everyone else up, and then they were mad at him? She couldn't let anyone be mad at Kenny. He was only four.

What time was it? Betty peeked at the glowing red numbers on the nightstand clock, almost covered by the round leaves of a plant. 11:33. It wasn't even tomorrow yet. It felt like it was tomorrow. Her stomach hurt, and her arm was still sore, and finally Betty decided that she really needed to use the bathroom. If she happened to use the bathroom closest to where Kenny was and she happened to check on him, well, that was just an accident.

Betty slid out of her cozy bed and touched down on the floor. Using her quiet mouse feet, and being careful to step around any plants she thought might be there, she snuck past Gary and made it to the door. She twisted the knob. She opened the door fast instead of slow, hoping that it wouldn't squeal on her. It didn't. It opened perfectly and quietly. So far, so good.

Next was the short hallway. Across from her was Mr. Sanderson's and Mr. Hawkins' bathroom, but Betty ignored it and tiptoed towards the living room. The floor was carpet, so it couldn't really creak, but she kept her steps light just in case. At the end of the hallway, she pressed her back against the wall and dared to risk the sneakiest peek around the corner of her life.

Mr. Sanderson was asleep on the gray couch, both his arms crossed underneath his chin. He had his sunglasses clenched in one fist. The window blinds were shut and it was too dark to tell if he was still wearing his suit, or if he'd gotten into his pajamas. Betty hadn't heard him changing clothes in the bathroom, although he had popped in super quick to check on Gary (and her too) when she was pretending to be asleep.

Another pixie lay at the other end of the couch. The couch was long and they were both pretty short grown-ups, so they could put their heads on opposite arms of the couch without bumping into each other's feet too much. Betty wrinkled her nose. The couch didn't look very comfortable. She liked big round couches with slick cushions, not this square couch with tough fabric that would probably leave a pattern like a waffle on your cheek if you lay down. It looked old. At least the pixies had been nice about giving her and Gary their beds.

Okay. Now what?

Kenny was in the room that Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Longwood shared, if she remembered right. She hadn't met either one of them yet, but she hoped they were nice enough. Betty studied the living room, then decided that the best way to cross it would be super fast. She crouched down on the floor, legs ready, and then she ran. She ran past the kitchen counter on her left, past the TV on her right, past the little table, past the couch–

Couch–

Betty froze beside the couch, tightening her hands. Her feet were on the ground, but she stayed up on her toes.

Mr. Sanderson wasn't asleep. He had opened his eyes when he heard her running, and now he was looking. Right at her.

Betty looked at him, feeling like she'd swallowed her hair. She stayed still, but Mr. Sanderson's eyes didn't shut. A minute passed. Then probably five. Was someone singing on the opposite side of the apartment? She thought she could hear singing, even though she couldn't make out the words. Finally, Betty took another step towards the other hallway. Then another. Mr. Sanderson's purple eyes followed her all the way across the living room, but he didn't say anything.

The further she went down the other hall, the more sure Betty was that she could hear singing. It sounded like it was coming from the right-hand door, which was the bathroom, and she might have giggled if this were another day. Papa liked to sing in the shower, and he was loud about it. When he sang, Mom would scoop Kenny up and waltz around the room with him, singing along. Or if Kenny didn't want to be picked up, then she'd pick up Betty. Sometimes they'd creep up to the bathroom door, which he never locked, and surprise him by bursting in and singing at the top of their lungs, while he shouted playfully at them to get out and give a man some privacy.

Betty turned the handle of the bedroom door. All the lights were off, and it was perfectly silent inside. There weren't plants in this one like in Mr. Sanderson's room, but there was a rabbit hutch near the door. The rabbit inside it was sleeping. Betty hoped it was sleeping and not dead, even though its body didn't rise with its breaths. She didn't really want to go in if it was dead. That was creepy. Then the rabbit twitched its ears, and she knew it was probably alive. Or haunted. Yeah, let's go with alive.

Betty looked around very carefully before she dared to slip in. One of the gray beds was still made. The other was a little rumpled. That was kind of weird. It was past 11:30, and bedtime for grown-ups was 10:00. Maybe Mr. Wilcox and Mr. Longwood hadn't come back to the apartment? She remembered hearing Mr. Madigan say Mr. Wilcox's name on the radio, so maybe he'd be back late tonight. Mr. Longwood too.

So… had Kenny been sent in here to sleep all alone?

Betty looked under the covers of both beds, and even underneath both beds. She checked the closet and the drawers, but she couldn't find Kenny anywhere. That was weird. It wasn't like he could just crawl through the window and fall all the way to the ground or anything.

Wait a minute. Why would someone be softly singing in the middle of the night… unless they were singing a baby to sleep?

Leaving the bedroom behind, plucking at the skin on her scraped-up arm, Betty crossed the hall to the bathroom. Along with the soft singing, she heard footsteps crossing back and forth. The door wasn't locked, so she peeked one eye in.

_"Well, I heard they got pinned. I was hoping they would."_

A pixie in gray pajamas stood in front of the tall bathroom mirror, holding a four-year-old almost as big as himself. Kenny's face rested on his shoulder, so Betty couldn't see his expression, but her brother wasn't squirming around like he wanted to get down. He sounded pretty quiet. If he wasn't asleep yet, he almost was.

 _"Now they're living at last. Going steady for good. Going steady_ – _"_

"Can I come in?"

The pixie's dangling wings sprang up behind him instantly.  _"Gah!_  Human." He turned, clutching Kenny tight. His grip only tightened when he saw who it was. He didn't have his sunglasses on, and his eyes were the same pretty purple as Mr. Sanderson's and H.P.'s. He blew out his breath, making the pointy hat floating above him bob around a little. Then he wiped his forehead with the back of one hand. "Oh. Wow. You humans don't understand how startling you can be when you sneak up on us like that. Our magical senses can't identify your kind. I didn't even realize you were there."

"Sorry. I'm Betty." She pointed at Kenny. "That's my little brother Kenny. I was just worried about him and couldn't sleep, so I wanted to check on him."

Slowly, the pixie relaxed. "He's fine," he said. "I'm holding him."

He didn't say anything else. Betty looked to the left, then the right. Then at him again. "Yeah."

"I was singing 'The Telephone Hour'. It's from a movie called 'Bye Bye Birdie'. Have you ever seen it?"

"I don't think so. I don't watch a lot of movies."

"Hmm. Then your parents have deprived you." Carefully, the pixie shifted Kenny in his arms so that he could hold out his hand to her for a shake. "Don't wake your brother. I just got him to sleep, so I'm going to put him to bed now. My name is Longwood. Mr. Longwood, but don't mind the 'Mr.' It's such a pleasure to finally meet you. You are?"

"… Betty." She'd just told him that, right?

"Betty. How are you settling in tonight, Ms. Betty? Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Um." She thought for a second. "Oh, yeah. There are no toys here. If we're going to stay here for awhile, then we need more toys."

Longwood nodded. "Toys. I'll take your input into account at next Friday's meeting, thank you."

Betty moved out of his way so he could carry Kenny back into the dark bedroom. Longwood lay the boy down in the rumpled bed by the window. Kenny wasn't quite asleep–he was just awake enough that he kept his arms locked around Longwood's neck, and it took the pixie a minute to figure out how to get them off.

"I liked your singing," Betty told him. "You sing very well."

Longwood glanced over at her, pulling Kenny's blankets up to his shoulder. "Thank you for your response. I wasn't sure I would. It's been centuries since I've sung to a child." He picked a large plush shark up from the nightstand and tucked it under Kenny's arm. Kenny snuggled up to it and instantly went right back to sleep.

"Do you have kids?" She hoped he'd say yes. She hadn't seen any pixie kids yet. True, Sanderson said she and Gary couldn't live in Pixie World forever or else they'd run out of air to breathe, but Betty hoped they'd visit enough that she could make friends with some pixie kids. Did her Earth friends think she was dead? H.P. had made it sound like they did, or would soon enough. She couldn't go back to Kansas. No more friends. No more family. No more horses. No more softball. No more school. Betty was trying not to think about that.

"I… had a kid, yes," Longwood said. "He's gone."

"Where does he live now?"

Longwood looked at her more seriously. "I mean, he's gone. He isn't ever coming back."

 _"Oh_. That kind of gone." Betty looked again at the shark he'd given Kenny. "So is that a dead person's toy?"

"Aspen's not dead," Longwood snapped, and Betty jumped at the shoulders. He inhaled through his teeth. "My apologies for startling you, but I always have to express my disagreement when people state that. Aspen isn't entirely dead. He's still in there. I can recognize tells of it sometimes. He's just… not as alive as he could be." He scratched his wrist, long nails scraping his skin. "I'm sorry. Aspen was my baby. I know it was highly unprofessional of me, but I grew attached to him."

Kenny stirred in the bed, but didn't get up. "I'd be so sad if anything happened to Kenny," Betty murmured. "I'm sorry. Did someone kidnap Aspen? Or did he run away?"

"No. No, he didn't run!" Longwood's throat briefly strangled his voice. "He was so trusting. Sanderson cornered him, and he didn't even–think–when I saw–No." He shook his head. "No. You would need a full lesson in Fairykind anatomy to understand exactly what happened, Ms. Betty. It's black magic stuff. I'm sorry. Anything involving Aspen is very difficult for me to discuss, and I would prefer not to breach the subject with a child I just met, you realize."

"Yeah. Sorry. I didn't mean to make you feel bad." Betty looked up at Longwood, who was looking down at Kenny, and reached out to pat his hand. "I lost my mom and dad today. Maybe it's not exactly the same as losing your baby, but… I think I know a little bit how you feel. It's really hard, isn't it? You don't really want to think about it, but you still do anyway. Especially when it's quiet at night. Gary's my friend, but I don't think he understands, and Kenny's too young to know what happened. It's hard to be the only one, with no one to talk to about your feelings."

"I," Longwood said thickly, "am the vice president of Pixies Incorporated, the third-largest major corporation in the entire cloudlands. We're ranked only after the Amity godparenting program and Kringle Inc. itself. I put the company first and always do what's logically best for the Pixies without hesitation. Feelings lead to illogical favor and unprofessional behavior. Feelings are a distraction. Emotions are pointless. I don't have any."

Betty pressed her lips together. "Everyone has feelings. Like, if I jabbed my fingers in your eyes, you would probably yell or cry about it. That's a feeling."

"That doesn't count," Longwood sighed. "Pain isn't a feeling. It's an automatic reflex of the body, and with dedication, it can be suppressed."

"Okay, but there's still pain inside your brain. You can feel it when you're sad. Like when I think about my parents dying, or you think about Aspen."

His mouth twitched in the dark. "I've learned ways to distract myself from ruminating on mental pain such as the loss of someone I cared for. Meditation. Expressive writing. Guided imagery. Acupuncture. Things that aren't standard education for a pixie, but I had the Anti-Fairies educate me in their ways. It helps me reduce stress."

A sudden new thought popped into Betty's head. She straightened up, her heels bumping together. "Can you teach me how?"


	6. Gone Batty

_Year of Water; Winter of the Sunlit River_

_Saturday, December 28th, 1991_

* * *

"Hey," she said.

"Hey," he said. He stood there at the entrance of the kitchen, looking around awkwardly like he didn't know if he was allowed to sit down or not. Betty pulled out the bar stool next to her so he knew it was okay.

"How'd you sleep?"

Gary ruffled the back of his hair, yawning as he did. "Ooh. Way, way better than I thought I would, actually, haha! But it's weird not having sunlight come through my window. I don't feel awake. How about you?"

"Eh. I didn't fall asleep until way late. Like, after midnight."

"Oh. Sorry. That's hard."

"Yeah, but I still got up before you." She held out the cereal box. "Want some cereal? You'll have to get it all yourself, though. Sanderson got that bowl and spoon out for you, and there's milk in the fridge, but it's soy milk. He went to see H.P. this morning, Hawkins took Kenny to see if he likes the toys they give the pixie kids, Wilcox went to work, and Longwood's doing something in his room. Making beds or something. So it's just us here."

Gary walked over to her bar stool and took the cereal from her hand. He flipped it over and studied the cartoony dragons on the back of the box. "Is it good?"

"Ehiyeh. I just started eating it."

"Huh." With a thoughtful look on his face, Gary opened the top and poured the cereal in the bowl. "I've never had this kind before."

"Yeah, they're squares with holes, kind of like Cinnamon Toast Crunch and kind of like Cheerios. I think it's probably magic."

"Why do Pixies need their own cereal? I thought all the cereals that could be made had already been invented."

Betty spooned another bite of the stuff in her mouth. "Because this is magic cereal, duh."

"Haha." Gary brought out his Vitamin D medicine and set it on the counter next to his cereal bowl. Then he went to get the milk. Betty kept eating as she watched him.

"It's not very sugary, though. It tastes like the dry pieces of Lucky Charms that aren't the marshmallows."

"That's too bad. Is this the milk?"

"Yeah. Is it too heavy? Do you need help?"

"I've got it, thanks." The counter was low enough that he could reach the top easily. The milk carton came down with a soft thud, and Gary unfolded its lid. "You know, I never thought about magical creatures like fairies and pixies having to use the fridge before. I always thought they just ate berries, dew, honey, and stuff like that."

"I hope they don't eat people and they're not fattening us up," Betty said. Gary almost dropped the whole entire carton in his bowl. His fingers skidded down the sides as he caught it and lifted it up again.

"What? Why would you even say that?"

Betty fiddled with her spoon. "I was just worrying about it."

Gary blew out his breath, rippling the milk in his cereal. He'd poured in more than Betty liked in hers. "Well, I don't think you need to worry about that."

"Yeah, maybe not." Taking another bite, she said, "I hope we don't get eaten by a dragon."

"Did Mr. Sanderson say if there are dragons in Pixie World?" he asked as he came over to sit on the stool next to her.

"No." Betty paused. "But he didn't say if there weren't."

Gary looked around like he expected to find a dragon lying on the living room couch, then started to eat his cereal quietly.

Thinking about Gary was infinitely better than dwelling on her parents' fates. Outwardly, Betty knew she appeared calm on Saturday morning as she ate her magic square cereal and sipped her water. But inside, her mind was spinning like a top. This was the first time she'd had the chance to talk to Gary since she'd hugged him last night, and she wasn't sure what to say. What if she said something that hurt his feelings? She didn't even really know him. Maybe he didn't like talking to people. Maybe he was one of those weird guys who didn't want to have any friends, and liked to dress in black and stand alone on a corner of the street staring at everybody. He didn't even like hugs. He was scared of them.

It was then that Betty made a plan. Gary was her friend now, and friends were supposed to help each other face their fears. If Gary didn't like hugs, then she'd just have to start him off with small touches and work her way up until he did. Then he would see there was nothing about hugs that was scary, and that she was trying to be nice. She should just reach over and touch his hand. Right now, while they were eating breakfast. Here she went. Right now.

"My backpack!" Gary suddenly cried. Betty almost dropped her water glass. After flinging his medicine pills into his mouth, Gary jumped off the bar stool next to her and ran to the apartment door. A new pixie had just come in through there, one that Betty didn't know. He looked tall for a pixie. Taller than she was. And he had a faint mustache beginning to grow above his mouth. He wore a gray shirt that wasn't very fancy, with short sleeves. His sunglasses were up in his hair. The new pixie smiled at her, running his fingers through his shiny black hair as he handed the pudgy blue backpack to Gary. Gary fell to his knees and hugged it tight.

"I thought I wasn't ever going to see this again! I had it with me in the crash. Thanks a bunch, Mr. Bayard."

Mr. Bayard grinned. "How ya doing, hot stuff?"

"Better than yesterday, thanks!"

He had Gary's backpack, but not the toy farm set her papa made for her with all the animals and twelve horses? Okay. It probably broke when the cars did.

"That's wicked, ya little cool cat. Where's Sanderson?"

Gary said, "I don't know." Betty said, "He had to go see H.P. or something. Everyone else is gone too, except for Mr. Longwood." She pointed down the hall. "He's still getting ready for work, I guess."

"Really…" Mr. Bayard glanced in that direction. "Okay. In that case, I'm just going to pop in and request permission to take the two of you out for a little ride."

"Ooh, sounds like fun." After Mr. Bayard fluttered away, Gary turned back to the kitchen counter. And the broad smile dropped completely off his face like it had been wiped. "Uh. Betty? Why does your other arm look like that now? It didn't look like that yesterday."

Betty set her spoon in the cereal bowl and glanced down. Her left arm had turned a little pink and stripey. "Oh, they're just scratches. They'll go away soon, probably tomorrow. Maybe tonight."

"Did Mr. Sanderson do that to you?"

His words were whispered and very serious. They caught Betty off guard, and she jerked up her head. "No, of course not! What? I'm a kid. Grown-ups don't hurt kids. Why would you even think that? Sanderson is nice, and he wants to help us. Don't worry, they're just from something I was doing with Mr. Longwood. He was teaching me to put needles in my skin to calm me down. They're not even deep. It's just like scratching an itch. It makes me feel better. It's called acu… actu… Actually, I don't remember."

"You mean  _you_ –? Why… Why would you do that to yourself?" Gary sounded honestly concerned, and confused, like he'd never been hurt on just one side of his body before. Betty was pretty sure she'd explained this to him in the hall yesterday, but she decided to do it again.

"Well, this arm was hurting." She pointed to the long red scrapes on her right arm. Then she switched over and pointed to her left. "It bothered me to feel pain on just one side, so when Mr. Longwood said he could teach me something that would help, I had him add some needles over here. He scratched me a little on accident, but it's okay. I feel more balanced now. I think the scratches actually helped. Now my brain isn't focused on just one arm. It thinks that it's normal for arms to feel this way, so it just blocks the pain out."

Gary thought about that for a second, then nodded. "Oh, well, I guess that makes a little bit of sense. Just a little bit. Like a little-wittle bit–Poking yourself with needles still sounds like it would hurt a lot. But you probably shouldn't do that. Mr. Sanderson and Mr. Longwood are magic. He probably could have fixed your arm for you if you asked."

Betty hesitated. If she told Gary that Mr. Sanderson had been too busy helping him to help her, that might make him feel bad. He might start to argue when the pixies needed to help him, and then if he didn't get all the extra help he needed, that would make  _her_  feel bad. Instead she said, "Oh yeah, I didn't think about that. I'm okay, though. Really. One time, I got my arm stepped on by a horse. That hurt  _way_  more than this."

Her words were supposed to cheer Gary up, but instead, a look of panic splashed across his face. "You were stepped on by a horse? Oh no! Are you okay?"

Betty blinked. She'd been stepped on a long time ago. Of course it didn't hurt anymore. But it was actually kind of sweet that Gary was so worried about her. Maybe he really had meant that stuff he said about wanting to be her friend.

"Okay," she said. "I'm sorry I scared you. I won't do any needle stuff by myself, and I'll make sure Mr. Longwood practices more before he tries on me again. I promise. Thanks for worrying about me."

Before she could say anything else, Gary plunged his hand into his backpack and pulled out a pale blue notebook that had darker polka-dots on the cover. "Here." He held it out with both hands. "I want you to have this. It was a rule when I was growing up that I wasn't allowed to sing, because I can't control my hand. So instead, I would write the songs I made up down in a book like this. It really made me feel better when I started to worry about things and wanted to distract myself."

"I can't take your journal," she protested.

Gary ran his thumb along the pages. Twice. "I don't think you're not taking it. No, I don't think you're taking it at all. I'm giving it to you. I don't really need it anymore. H.P. and Mr. Sanderson are going to let me sing out loud as much as I want now."

"But what about your songs?" The thought almost made her throw up her cereal and soy milk. Betty had written a story at school once, and had let her friend Katie take it home for the weekend to show her big brother, who was a story writer as a job. Then Katie lost the story, saying that her dad probably threw it away in the trash can on accident. Even though Betty had held herself together with a smile when Katie told her that on Monday, she still cried in her mother's lap for an hour after she came home. And that was just one story. She couldn't imagine losing half a notebook full of songs. How could Gary trust her to be careful with his songs so soon? Katie had been her best friend for a whole year, and she and Gary only met yesterday.

But when he smiled shyly at her, it melted the whole world into tiger butter. "I can remember my songs. And if I don't, then I'll just ask you if I can look." Gary pushed the notebook into her stomach. "Please take it. I'll feel better if you do. I want you to have a way to distract yourself when your body hurts. I just don't want you to pick at those scabs or scratch your skin or stab yourself with needles on purpose anymore. I don't think that's good for you. It doesn't sound very safe."

Keeping a diary sounded like a really girly thing to do, and Betty had never thought that kind of thing was for her. But she took it anyway. "Thanks, Gary. But I wasn't really hurting my arms. Mr. Longwood said the needles really help if you do it right, and he didn't mean to scratch me. It doesn't really hurt. They just feel itched."

Gary bent his head and zipped up his backpack again. "Um. Well, maybe in a few years, when you're a teenager, you'll, um… You might start hurting more? My mom said all girls' stomachs start hurting after they become teenagers, because that's part of being a girl, because there are babies inside you. So yeah. I'll just feel better if you have a notebook to write in. It really helps, I promise. And I'll buy you a new one with my allowance when you fill that one up. And I'll ask and see if any of the other pixies know about Mr. Longwood and the needles. If he's poking you for no reason, someone should tell them, and if needles really do help with pain, they'll know. Maybe they can have someone better than Mr. Longwood show you how to do it."

"That's really nice of you. Thanks."

"Yeah, you're welcome. You're my friend."

Betty caught her breath. "We're friends?"

"Yeah."

"Okay. Great."

They waited another awkward minute for Mr. Bayard to come out of Mr. Longwood's room. Betty drummed her fingers on the notebook's soft cover. She wanted to open it and see how many songs Gary had written, but she was afraid that if she did it in front of him, he'd be embarrassed. Instead she said, "I like your pajamas. They look comfy."

"Thanks, they are. Yours are neat too."

"Mr. Sanderson gave them to me."

"Me too."

They waited a little longer. Betty finished her cereal and took her bowl around the counter to the sink. Gary did the same, then sat down on his stool again. They waited even more a little longer. Finally, Mr. Bayard came out again, with Mr. Longwood behind him. Mr. Bayard looked annoyed, and Mr. Longwood looked like he wanted to cry. His freckles blended in with his pink cheeks. He cupped a bunch of tiny needles in his fist, and a few more were sticking out of his ear.

"Let's go, kids," Mr. Bayard said calmly. "Mr. Longwood said it was okay."

"But–" Betty began.

Mr. Bayard gestured with his hand. A wave of warm energy slammed into her face, knocking Betty almost to the floor. She grabbed for the edge of the counter, but missed. When she looked down, she found that she was now outside the apartment building. Like, way, way outside of it. They were in some kind of cloudy field now, with the buildings rising up in the distance on the other side of a short purple bridge. Betty was still in her pink pajamas, but Gary's notebook was gone. Even though it was morning now, the sky was still starry and purple-blue overhead. The three of them were standing next to some kind of huge bike. Except, instead of wheels, the bike hovered on two tiny white clouds a few inches above the ground. Longwood hadn't come.

"Eep!" Gary slapped a hand over his mouth. "M-Mr. Sanderson said I'm not supposed to  _ping!_ "

"No, it's fine. Now let's get down to business." Mr. Bayard flicked his sunglasses down over his eyes. After unstrapping a large silver dish from the side of the big black bike, he handed it to Gary. "Okay, you two. I hope you got some good rest last night, because here's what we're gonna do this morning. See that giant hill there right behind you?"

Betty turned first and gasped. Gary turned with her. And jumped. "Oh my goodness!"

Betty crept forward. Her stomach flew into her throat, then down to her knees. Mr. Bayard's "hill" wasn't much of a hill. It was like a gigantic slide, but without edges. Five thick purple stripes made a smooth path that stretched far, far, far down to whiteness below. Was that Earth? She could see a few little trees, although a lot of the land was empty. "Oh," Betty said. The Head Pixie had said they were in the clouds above Earth, but somehow, it was way scarier actually seeing for herself how high they really were. She reached out to take Gary's arm. He held hers in return.

Mr. Bayard nodded and leaned back against the black bike, holding himself up with his elbows. "That beauty, my friends, is the Bit Bridge. What you want to do is ride this dish all the way down this monster ramp, and then at the bottom, I'll be there to drive you up again."

"Yeah, I don't know," Gary murmured.

Betty gulped. "Are you sure this is safe?"

"It's just a bit of snow at the bottom," Mr. Bayard assured them. "It's soft. You'll like it. Then I'll bring you back to the top on my starcycle so you can ride down again."

"Starcycle?" Betty repeated. She looked the bike contraption over again. It did look a lot bigger and fancier than a normal bike, with an engine and everything. And of course there were the cloud-wheels. A huge yellow star was painted on the side. "Why don't you just call it a motorcycle?"

"Because it's a starcycle."

Betty looked again at Gary, who was backing away. "I don't know," he said again. "Why don't we just, uh, tour the city instead?"

"Yeah, what Gary said. Maybe we should do something else. After I go on just one run."

Gary looked at her like she'd gone bonkers in five seconds. "What?"

She shrugged defensively. "Mr. Bayard thinks it's safe, so I'll try it at least one time. My mom says that's how we 'broaden our horizons'."

… Mom. Mom who was there when she first rode a horse, when she first helped a mare birth her colt, when she first cooked on the stove, when she first went on a butterfly fairy hunt with her parents in the rain, when she first learned to read, when she first helped to make Kenny's birthday cake. Even when her belly had been huge with baby Kenny inside her, Mom always gave the best hugs. Betty couldn't really describe them, but it was the way Mom put both hands on her spine and pulled her in close, leaning down to rest her head just above Betty's shoulder. Her squeezing hugs made Betty feel like the most special person in all of Kansas. Or all of the world.

Mom would want her to broaden her horizons by riding the dish down the Bit Bridge hill at least once. Mr. Bayard thought it was okay. She'd be careful.

"You don't have to go with me," she assured Gary, reaching out to take the silver dish. "I don't want you to go if you're scared, but I want to try once. I have to."

Gary looked at her, then the giant purple hill, and then at her again. He moved between it and her, holding up his hands near his chest. "No way. You're crazy. What if you fall?"

"Can I fall?" she asked Mr. Bayard.

"Nah," he said, rolling his bike forward. "The Bridge is magic. It tugs magical things and people to it, so they stick like magnets."

Immediately, Gary locked eyes with her again. "Betty, don't. You're not magic."

"Oh!" Mr. Bayard's eyes cleared up with understanding. "No, it's fine. If you fall, I'll catch you."

Betty chewed on her upper lip. Okay, the hill or the bridge or whatever it was called was crazy high. She knew she'd probably get a little scratched up at the bottom, but Mr. Bayard had said it was snow down there. Snow was soft, and she'd only be down there for a second before he brought her back to the top to warm up again. What if she changed her mind later and wanted to slide down, but the season changed and then it was all dirt and rocks at the bottom? Then it would hurt. What if it didn't snow next year? She could wait until next year when she was nine, but would she still be in Pixie World then? Mr. Sanderson and Mr. Longwood made it sound like she and Gary were only here in Pixie World until the Pixies could find a place for them to live on Earth because there wasn't enough oxygen here. What if she never came back to Pixie World?

What if she died in a car accident like her parents? What if she died and then never had the chance to sled down the highest, craziest, funnest hill ever in her life?

"One time," Betty said. Clutching the dish to her heart, she tiptoed right up to the Bridge. Gary seemed speechless, but he got out of her way. The Bridge was so shiny and slick, it looked like a bowling alley. Betty knelt down and positioned the dish carefully at the top. For a few seconds, she stared down the steep drop, trying to decide if even considering this made her crazy. Now that she was up close, about to slide down, it was actually a lot higher than she'd realized. She wet her lips with her tongue and swallowed.

"So this goes straight down to Earth?"

"Yep. The only way to get into the cloudlands without  _poof_ ing or  _ping_ ing is to climb one of the Bridges. This one belongs to us Pixies, and connects Pixie World to Kansas. We're right above Mushroom Rock now. The Fairies have a Rainbow Bridge in California. The Anti-Fairies used to have a Shadow Bridge, but they don't anymore. They broke it. Whatcha gonna do?"

"Really? We're above Kansas?" Betty raised her eyebrows. "I've never seen or heard about a giant beam of purple light making a bridge into the clouds."

"You have to be magic or a godkid to see it," Mr. Bayard explained patiently, rubbing the handlebars of his bike with his palms.

Or someone had to blow magic dust in your eyes, she guessed. "What's a godkid?"

Mr. Bayard placed two fingers on his nose, just below the bridge of his sunglasses. "It means you're a kid who has a fairy godmother or godfather to grant your wishes."

"Like Cinderella?"

"You mean Cosmorella? Yeah, like that. Fairies can choose to be godparents as a job when they grow up. They find miserable kids all over the world and use their magic to help them have a good childhood and learn to take care of themselves when they grow up. But their kids can't tell anyone about magic, or else their fairy godparents have to quit and leave them. We have to keep the cloudlands secret and safe so adults don't try to take control of us or steal our magic or anything."

Betty looked at Gary. "Okay. So, are Kenny, Gary, and me godkids? Is Mr. Sanderson our fairy godfather?"

Mr. Bayard glanced down at his lap. "We're Pixies. We're not totally allowed to have godkids. Instead, Mr. Sanderson wants to adopt the three of you. Then if he does, he'll be allowed to take care of you kind of like you were a godkid, but you won't have to be separated from him when you grow up to be adults."

"Adopt us?" Betty tried to catch her breath and missed. Was that like for forever? Sure, she knew the Pixies sort of liked her, but this was like,  _wow_.

Adopted by Pixies.

Magic.

Love.

Home.

Forever.

Gary crossed his arms. His foot went up, then came down on the front of Betty's sled before she could push it forward and ride down the Bridge. "Why aren't Pixies allowed to have godkids? Is it because they keep letting humans fall out of the clouds to their deaths?"

"What? No! It's because the Fairies don't like us, that's all. We didn't do anything wrong." Mr. Bayard used one finger to push his sunglasses closer to his eyes. He wasn't smiling anymore. "Heck, we fought on their side in the war against the Anti-Fairies. We didn't even want to, but they forced us and so we did. We deserve to have godkids, but they cut us out of the spoils and didn't give us one lick of anything."

Betty curled her fingers around the edges of the dish. "Um. Yeah. That's too bad."

Gary didn't flinch. "Okay, but H.P. said that legally, he wasn't allowed to be left alone with children unsupervised anymore. What's that about?"

Mr. Bayard forced an obviously fake laugh and looked away. The red bird tattoo on his neck spread its wings and flew up along his throat, close to his ear. "Yep, old H.P. is such a josher. Don't take him too seriously all the time, okay, kid?"

Again, Betty looked at the hill. She nudged Gary's foot with her fingers, and reluctantly he slid them away. But to her surprise, he knelt down in the large dish behind her, and wrapped his arms loosely, carefully, around her stomach.

"I'll just ride with you too, okay?"

Betty twisted around to smile at him. "See? I told you it would be fun!"

"Haha," he said, bracing his teeth in a line. "I'd just  _reeeally_ , really feel a lot better if I came with you, since I'm part magic and I'll probably stick to the Bridge better than you could by yourself."

"So." Betty lifted her shoulders near her ears. "It's pretty high, huh? Those trees look like ants, or rocks."

"We can't really do this," Gary said, and for the first time, a niggling thought in Betty's head wondered if he was right. That was a  _steep_  drop.

"Yeah, um, maybe we should think–"

"Yeah, nope, we're not doing this," Gary said, and tried to roll them both to the side just as Mr. Bayard's hands shoved the dish forward. Betty screamed. She fell back into place, Gary yelping behind her. His fingernails dug through her shirt and into her skin. His legs squeezed around her, and Betty wished she could let go of the sled and grab him in a hug. But she couldn't. Her fingers wouldn't come off the dish. She held it so tightly, her knuckles were as white as the snow far below. Biting wind stabbed into her face as they  _whooshed_  down the huge purple Bridge. Her hair screamed behind her in crazy waves, probably getting in Gary's mouth and eyes. They howled together, eyelids fluttering. There was too much wind, too much speed. Her eyes wouldn't shut.

It took too long to reach the ground. The whole Bridge was steep, but the bottom curved extra sharp towards the end. Just when Betty swore they were going to hit hard and break their arms and legs, the steepness became too steep, and the dish sailed straight off the whole Bridge. They plopped in the snow. They skidded forward. They twirled around and around.

They stopped.

Betty's breath billowed in the air in front of her, steamy and warm against the cold. Her hands stayed wrapped around the edge of the dish. It was so cold. Her pink pajama shirt had short sleeves. Out of breath from screaming and the high altitude, she and Gary sat for a moment to gasp and rest.

"Whoa-oh-oh," Betty finally managed to say. She turned around to find Gary panting beside her, tugging his silky sleeves over his hands. "Was that crazy or what?"

"Actually…" Gary raised his head, and their eyes met. Betty had forgotten what a pretty green his eyes were. He held his elbow, and actually smiled. "That wasn't as bad as I thought it would be. It was scary, but actually fun."

Mr. Bayard's starcycle roared down the ramp after them, coming to a much easier stop at the Bridge's base. "You kids were totally rad. I didn't think you would actually do it. Way to be! What a team."

Betty couldn't stop herself from beaming. "Can we go again?"

Gary balled his hands into fists. "Yeah, can we?"

Mr. Bayard waved his magic pen, and a rope appeared in front of them with a  _ping_ , connecting the front of the sled to the back of his motorcycle. "Be my guests. Hop on and hang on tight. I'm going to pull you crazy kids up."

It wasn't as scary going down the second time, even though she and Gary did scream the whole way. Some of that, they were just laughing. On their third run down, they hit the jump weird and actually flipped over, plowing face-first into the snow. When they sat up and looked at each other, they both had to wipe off a ton of powder. Betty licked at the ice crystals on her mouth, and at a bit of snot sneaking down from her nose and getting all wet on her upper lip. When Mr. Bayard brought his starcycle down, she hopped up and blurted, "Can I drive?"

Mr. Bayard grinned. "I was worried you wouldn't ask. You look plenty big enough to me." He slid off the cycle and, still holding one handlebar, motioned for Betty to take his place. He gave her a boost. The seat was pretty high up, especially since the whole cycle was floating a few inches off the ground. Tentatively, she wrapped her fingers around the 'Go' lever and revved the engine. It puttered, like a happy animal. It puttered again. Betty glanced over her shoulder to check on Gary, who sat grinning in the sled, then pushed the throttle thing forward. The starcycle jolted up the Bridge, and everyone cheered the whole way. They rode down over and over, gaining speed and bravery with every run.

But, cresting the Bridge after their dozenth time down, Mr. Bayard suddenly made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Uh-oh, it's the boss man," he called back to them on the dish.

"Faster!" Gary pointed his finger towards the distant woods. "Don't let him catch us, or we'll get in trouble!"

Betty tightened her grip on the dish's front, careful to avoid the bouncing rope that tied it to the cycle's back. The sled jolted beneath them. "Are you nuts? We can't just ignore him! That'll make him angry."

Mr. Bayard glanced down at the dashboard of his starcycle, like he was seriously considering gunning it and flying off into empty space. But instead, he banked the cycle sideways and dragged it to a stop in front of the Bridge, right next to H.P. When the bike started to tip, he put his foot down. Betty and Gary slid to a stop behind him and looked up at the Head Pixie's neutral smirk.

"Mr. Bayard," he greeted, all conversational. He clasped his hands behind his back. "What's going on in this neck of the city?"

The younger pixie's wings skipped a beat. "We're on tour."

The Head Pixie's eyebrow went up. "You're  _on tour_ , or you're  _touring_? Those are different. One implies business expenses, and one implies profit."

"Aw blitz, H.P., you know I'm not any good with linguistics."

As they began to bicker about Mr. Bayard's word choice, Betty wandered over to the edge of the clouds and took a peek over the side. Gary set down his rope and crept after her. It was beautiful. Really beautiful. Betty hadn't realized Kansas looked so flat from way up high. The few little trees far below looked like the bristles on a hairbrush, capped with fluffy white bobbles and–

"Hey! Get back from there!"

Betty spun around, pinwheeling her arms. She caught her balance, but that didn't stop H.P. from grabbing her waist and yanking her towards him. He twirled her in the air and placed her firmly on the more solid cloud.

"Good dust. Stay away from the edge. It's not safe. You almost fell off."

"I was fine until your scream scared me," she muttered as Gary scampered behind her.

H.P.'s hands flew out, but withdrew in a snap. He covered his face briefly, then held his hands down in front of him again. "Betty, the entirety of Pixie World is open to you. I only ask one small thing."

Betty had a pretty certain idea about what it was, but she decided to ask him anyway. "What's that?"

At this, the Head Pixie reached out and gripped her shoulders like he was gripping a broken rope bridge on the side of a canyon wall. "Don't. Go near. The edge. That's all I want. Frolic anywhere else you please, but not near the high places like this."

"But it's so pretty," she said. "I just wanted to look. I've only seen pretty cliffs in pictures before, and they weren't made of clouds like this one is. I was being careful. I didn't get too close to the edge. There's no wind up here to knock me over, so I wasn't going to fall. Even if I did, you guys are magic and can fly. You could catch me."

H.P.'s hands moved up to her neck, then her cheeks. He pressed them inward with his thumbs. "Betty, Betty, Eliza _beth_  Lovell. It would make my life infinitely less stressful if I did not have to worry about you going near the edge of the clouds. I don't even allow my pixies this close. One way or another, I will be keeping you back from the edge. It's too high. I want you to make this easy for me."

Betty frowned. "I was being careful. How about you let me look over the edge when I'm nine?"

"Two hundred."

"Humans don't live that long. Ten."

His eyes narrowed. "One hundred fifty. Final offer."

"Ten!"

H.P. pulled his hands away. "Don't go near the edge," he said. "No one goes near the edge. And don't eat the yellow clouds. That's what people say, isn't it? And Bayard…"

Mr. Bayard had wheeled his starcycle towards the road as quietly as possible. When H.P. called his name, his wings stiffened.

"Sir?"

H.P. flicked his eyes over both Gary and Betty. "These two may be adult pixie size, but their mental capacity is nowhere near that of adults. They're very young humans. Only children. You need to understand that."

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Betty. Gary. The next time you're in Pixie World, no more visiting cliffs. Read some books. Look at pictures of cliffs if you want to."

Betty glanced over her shoulder at the edge of the clouds. It would indeed be a long way down. In fact, she'd dropped down it on the sled a dozen times now, so she had a pretty good idea of how far it was to Earth. "Yeah… Sure thing, H.P. No more cliffs."

"Good. I'm glad we had this talk." H.P. swung around and started to float away. "So Gary, you're to come with me now."

"What?"

"Anti-Cosmo wants to talk to you personally. Who am I to refuse?"

Gary gulped. Betty leaned forward, stretching her hand towards Gary's arm. "Uh, should I go too?"

H.P. waved his hand without turning back around. "That won't be necessary. I only care about Gary. You can stay with Mr. Bayard. Away from the edge."

"Oh. Okay."

As he walked away, Gary looked back over his shoulder. Betty gave him an encouraging wave. He waved back, smiling a very nervous smile that didn't fool her one bit. Betty moved over to stand next to Mr. Bayard.

"Do… you think Gary's going to be okay? Will Anti-Cosmo try to hurt him?"

"H.P.'s with him." Mr. Bayard tightened his grip on the handlebars of his starcycle and blew out his breath. "Oh boy, oh boy… Hey, blondie. Let's take a ride across town. We'll get you some frozen yogurt. It's on me."

Betty couldn't peel her eyes from the back of Gary's head, his shoulders tense and hair all prickly orange. But she heard herself say, "Sure, I guess. Lead the way."

* * *

"Are you dumping me on Anti-Cosmo because you think I'm too crazy to handle?" Gary asked, trudging through the puffy purple clouds after the Head Pixie. He wanted to slip his hands in his pockets, but he was still wearing the magic gray pajamas, and the best he could do was let his palms brush against his waist.

"What?" H.P. looked down at him (down because he was floating, even though the two were about the same size) and wrinkled his nose. "No. Of course not. I just want you to meet him. He wants to talk to you about your Genie heritage. He thinks he might be able to get you in contact with your great-great-great-great grandmother."

Gary brought his hands together. "Oooh. But, um… Don't take this the wrong way, sir, but I'm almost  _positive_  you said that we shouldn't, under any circumstances, ever let Anti-Cosmo find out about my Genie heritage."

"Well. Right after you left my office, I changed my mind."

"In the same hour?"

H.P. placed his hand on Gary's head and turned him towards the blocky white waterfall building that was supposed to be this big Water Temple place. "Shh. Walk."

Easier said than done. Every one of his instincts was rattling around inside his head, shouting that he should take off running in any direction  _except_  the one that led to the small, wet building. His hands rattled. The hairs lifted on the back of his neck. His stomach gurgled a bunch in an unpleasant way. And yet, Gary swallowed and forced himself on, because H.P. was watching him and he had nowhere else to go. If he wanted to stay in Pixie World, then he had to listen to what the Head Pixie said. That seemed like it was the rule.

Two blue figures, dressed in equally blue clothes, waited for them just outside the temple's entrance. One was Anti-Cosmo, with an expression on his face like he'd just heard he was allowed to burn all the marshmallows over the campfire that he wanted to without getting into trouble. The other figure, of course, was Talon, who leaned his back against the arched doorway, bat wings dangling. When they approached, Anti-Cosmo spread his arms to either side, then brought them together again with a quick clap.

"Why, Garrett! Garrett Juandissimo Tuckfield Cabrera. So very good to see you again. My name is Anti-Cosmo, in case you weren't aware; I'm afraid in all the excitement before, I may not have had the mind to introduce myself properly.  _Sooo_  sorry we got off on the wrong foot last night, chap. I was just so excited to meet you."

"You yanked out my hair," Gary said.

"Yes, I did, didn't I? I'm afraid I was conducting a scientific study, and I do apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused you." Anti-Cosmo squared his shoulders, smiling a close-lipped smile. "Look here. I understand that Talon and I may have unnerved you yesterday, but I wish to put all of that behind us now. Mistakes were made and mistakes were learned from. All I want now is to get a good look at you, hm? How about it, then?"

 _I wish you wouldn't_ , Gary wanted to say. But he didn't. With a sigh, he pulled off his pajama shirt and allowed Anti-Cosmo to poke at and pull him, circle him and bend him. His blue hands weren't as furry as Gary had expected, although they were really cold, like he'd just carried a dozen frozen soda pops from an icy cooler and across a room. Talon watched half-sympathetically from the sidelines, twisting one of his curls around a claw.

"My dear friend H.P. here told me that you sing," said Anti-Cosmo, patting both his hands down Gary's sides. His blue tongue flickered against his fangs like a snake's. "How would you describe what happens when you sing?"

Gary recited his usual muttered spiel about losing himself in music and lacking the ability to control his snapping fingers when the instinct kicked in. He half expected Anti-Cosmo to scoff and comment that he "simply ought to try harder to resist", or thought the anti-fairy would at least stifle a snort. Instead, Anti-Cosmo kept his eyes on his, nodding with sympathy every other word.

"Ah, now that alone proves your Genie heritage. It's called the wish granter's reflex. Being part Fomorian, your body lacks the patellar reflex, or the automatic urge of the leg to kick when hit below the knee. The Fomorian tribes are elemental snake folk, you know, so they of course lacked real knees altogether. Even when using magic to change from their natural state to one with two distinct legs, the patellar reflex doesn't carry over. That was a big deal during the 1st Creature War, when anyone accused of being a witch would be subject to such prodding. Anyway." He blew his bangs out of his eyes. "Each of the Fomorian tribes has their own set of reflexes otherwise. Only the Fire Tribe shows wish granter's reflex, so therefore, we can prove you are part Genie."

H.P. had been watching Anti-Cosmo's pat-down with half-closed eyes, bracing himself against the curve of the arch opposite from where Talon stood. Hearing this, he leaned slightly forward. "Friendly tip: Don't listen to 'We wish you a Merry Christmas' on repeat, even if 'tis the season for it. Actually, they had to ban it up in Fairy World altogether a few years ago. It was messing with people's minds."

Gary twisted his lips into a smile. "Well, imagine that! It always has been my least favorite holiday song."

Anti-Cosmo bobbed his head, sliding his hands around Gary's waist until his fingers linked in the back. "Now, see here. If one is in the know, as I am, one can feel through your skin that some of the lowest vertebrae in your back right here around your pelvis are much more akin to that of a Fomorian than a human. You of course have two legs instead of one large tail, but the bone structure shows through all the same. Those are witch's hips, my friend! Wider than a fully human drake's, and when you're older they'll slither and sway so nicely when you walk. There's an interesting red flower by that name, you know. Witch's hips. That's our name for it, anyway; I believe the humans call them blood blossoms. Another relic from the days of the Creature Wars, though it was much more prominent during the 2nd than the first. Nasty stuff, so I've heard, but my wife finds them quite gorgeous and always insists on growing bunches of them in her greenhouse nonetheless."

As uncomfortable as he felt having his body touched by a stranger, Gary was still sort of glad that Anti-Cosmo was doing it. H.P. had made him sound super scary, but he really seemed to know what he was talking about. It was like a visit to the doctor's office, even if it was in the creepy temple. "Have you seen other kids like me before?" he asked, and winced as Anti-Cosmo's talons poked into his back.

"A few. I really don't pay much attention to human witches nowadays, I must admit. It's sooo busy in Serentip recently, keeping tabs on the Alien tourists."

"Aliens! You mean like"—Gary wiggled his fingers—" _Alien_  aliens?"

Anti-Cosmo flicked his bright green eyes up to Gary's face. "Whyever not? Fomorians can really take on any temporary form they choose, especially when they're in love. You humans aren't so self-centered as to assume you were the only race such powerful magical creatures have ever taken an interest in, now were you? Yes, there are many Alien races we Fairykind consider non-magical, and when they breed with genies, the offspring are referred to as witches."

"Wow," he breathed. "I wonder if I have any Alien cousins on my genie grandma's side."

"I suppose that's possible." Anti-Cosmo counted the bones in Gary's spine again, tapping his fingers against each one and nodding his head while still keeping up with their discussion. "Do forgive me for saying this if you find my comment offensive, but it's my job as a conservationist to preserve the dying Genie race. Genie pregnancies last for five years at a time, so a doe taking on the ways of women with a man of another species can ofttimes be a horrible inconvenience to people such as myself, let me tell you."

"So you work with genies? Do you know my genie grandma?"

"No, I'm afraid I don't. The Pixies apparently have her listed in their infinite files for one reason or another, but I myself didn't recognize her name. She has a red tail, if you were curious."

It was so weird to hear him say that: "Your great-grandma has a red tail." Gary had hated that time in second grade when the teacher made everyone do family trees. Yeah, he'd gotten some help from his mom so he could at least fill in his ancestors' names and talk a bit about the Cabrera/Silvestri side of his family, but thinking of how little he knew about the individual people just hurt. Although, it didn't hurt nearly as bad as when people sometimes asked him how his parents met, and he didn't know if he was allowed or not to mutter, "My mom puts on these big show-off performances for grown-ups in this building I'm not allowed to go inside even when my dad isn't home after school and I need a place to hang out, and my dad saw her when he was celebrating with his friend one time and actually thought she was interesting more than he thought she was weird, for once…"

And even  _that_  didn't hurt as much as whenever someone at school flat-out accused him and his dad of not being related, and said that his mom had gotten pregnant from some random stranger at the "creepy adult place" where she worked. Gary knew his mom was a little crazy sometimes, but he didn't think she was  _that_  kind of crazy. Both his parents had promised him it wasn't true, and they talked about how after his mom found out she was pregnant, they'd done all this fancy math to figure out exactly which day they'd, um, had him and stuff. To make him feel better, they even had him quiz them on some of the details, having them write their answers on paper to questions like if his dad had brought flowers and if they'd gone to see a movie that day.

They both got all the answers right. Or at least the same. So they knew the day. And he didn't think they would lie to him. It still didn't stop the teasing, though. Gary hadn't known what to do, because it was true. He and his dad didn't look even a little bit alike. He had spiky orange hair that stood straight up on his head like thick grass. Since his dad's hair was dark black, shouldn't Gary's hair have been black too? Was that how it worked? Well. Gary knew why people gave them strange looks when they were out together without his mom. Or sometimes even when his mom was with them. Sometimes other kids even asked him why his dad would want to marry someone who was crazy.

Well. Gary knew for absolute sure he was Elaine Cabrera's son. But wasn't that weird, that he felt like he'd learned more important stuff about his family after one day with the Pixies than during the whole eight years he'd spent with his actual parents?

"Have you met other human witch kids? Do you know if there are any my age?"

"Oh dear me, I'm not so good with human rates of aging." Anti-Cosmo glanced over at the Head Pixie, still waiting by the wall. "I'm sure there are many witches around, but I only take interest in Djinn. There was a redheaded girl a few years back living somewhere near the Rainbow Bridge. Do you remember, H.P.? That one punk-haircut godkid's sister. Emery gave you a report about her and had you deliver it to me in person. She was a P-class witch, so she had some nasty, bulging parasite that grew from her face and was supposed to irresistibly seize control of her brain and body for itself around the time she underwent puberty, poor doll. Her mother had it too, albeit on her back. What was her name?"

H.P. blinked. "Remembering her name was not one of my priorities. I could have someone look it up. It was in that one country song. The traveling one."

"Hmm." Anti-Cosmo shrugged. "Alabama something."

"Don't you cry. Come from Alabama. Banjo. Oh. Susanne."

"Susanne! Yes. Susanne, the little redheaded witch of Dimmsdale, whose older sister had a fairy godparent. We should put Garrett in touch with her. Perhaps they might find something they have in common. How long ago was that now, exactly?"

H.P. shifted his feet. "A decade and a half. I think. She could have kids of her own by now. Or she never married. Probably a mom anyway. Parasitic class. Id-happy face parasite. You know how it goes."

A worm of unease crept into the bottom of Gary's stomach. He remembered Betty, crying on her bed because she was afraid that since he was sort of magical, he wouldn't want to be friends with a regular human like her. "Anti-Cosmo? Or Mr. Anti-Cosmo? H-how long do witches live?"

"Not long," Anti-Cosmo said absently, tonguing his cheek as he squinted into each of Gary's eyes one at a time.

Wait. That was worse.

"Wait. Wait. Wait. Is this one of those sicknesses where if you have it, you don't live very long? When will I be a ghost? Is it before I grow up?"

His words made Anti-Cosmo glance up with some surprise, and he laughed in a way that rattled Gary's bones. "Oh, so sorry for the confusion. Not long in a Fairy's eyes, I mean. Witches last a couple hundred years; that's all. Five hundred is really about average I'd say, though I believe we have on record a witch who reportedly made it up to six, hm? Really nothing compared to genies, or for Tarrow's sake, we Fairykind."

"Oh. Oh."

Oh.

All of a sudden, Gary really wanted to sit down. Or maybe take a nap. He tightened his hands against his stomach and clenched his teeth. Was that for real? A couple hundred years? That couldn't be right. If that were true, someone would have figured witches out by now. Someone human. There weren't people running around on Earth who were hundreds of years old. And he had aunts and uncles. Cousins. If all of them were witches, and all of them lived for hundreds of years, and there were other witch families like his, someone would have noticed by now.

Five hundred years. Was it supposed to be like that, even though he was only 1.56% genie? Shouldn't he live closer to, oh, 100 years?

Six hundred years. Would he have white hair and wrinkles like H.P. by then, or would he still look young and normal like Mr. Sanderson?

Could he hide from his mom for five or six hundred years? No, he'd give in and want to see her eventually, right? Wouldn't she live 500 years too? They had time to patch things up. Maybe it would be easier after they were both grown up and his dad was dead.

Oh, wait. His dad  _was_  dead.

Five hundred years. How many wars was that? What was five hundred years ago? 1491? Christopher Columbus hadn't even found America yet. He was going to be older than America! That was a lot of fireworks. Would he still like the Fourth of July when he was 500? Would he still live in America by then? Would America even exist anymore? What about polar bears? What about endangered pandas? Would they still be around? Gary didn't really want to live in a world where every panda was dead.

How many people would die in 500 years? What if humans cured all diseases and found a way to live forever? Or what if they didn't, and they ran out of cemeteries? What if there were just bodies everywhere? What if people ran out of food and everyone was so hungry that they started eating each other? What if zombies attacked, and he had to fight back all by himself?

… What if Betty's zombie attacked him?

Oh. He was going to be there at Betty's funeral. Kenny's too. And their kids, and their kids, and their kids, and their kids. Maybe even some of his own kids. What if some of the dead kids looked just like Betty and Kenny? But they wouldn't be the same. They wouldn't have grown up with him.

Gary's breath got stuck in his chest. His hands jittered, even when he wiped them against his legs. Oh no. Oh no. He didn't want to see Betty's and Kenny's funerals. He didn't want to see their graves. Betty, lying face-down with her pretty blonde hair covered in mud. Kenny, so tiny and innocent when he curled up beside her, sucking on two fingers of one hand and clutching a toy train in the other. Bones. Buried. Tight. Small. Closing in.

He had to get out of the Temple. Like, probably right now.

"Well." Withdrawing his hands from Gary's waist, Anti-Cosmo took half a flutter back. "That about settles that. Garrett here is Djinn American, all right. Oh, can I keep him?"

"What?" Gary went rigid, except for his eyes. They widened like full moons in high tide. He shot his gaze to H.P., who tightened his mouth in an even sterner frown than usual.

"Gary's mine. He stays with me."

"I'll get you a new human drake," Anti-Cosmo begged, spinning around. The two long tails of his coat whisked behind him. "One without an extra chromosome, even, and then you can do whatever you want with him. I don't get a lot of access to humans in Anti-Fairy World. Perhaps we can work something out, hmm?"

A thin vein throbbed along the Head Pixie's forehead. "I'm afraid that Gary needs me more than he needs you. I'm keeping him. Please do not argue with me about this."

Anti-Cosmo's claws tightened at his sides. But instead of pushing the fight, he simply puffed out his cheeks. "Righto, old sport. But do give me a scry if you ever change your mind. Oh, and that reminds me. Are we still on for supper at my place Tribute Day?"

"We absolutely are. Now, tell me about the DNA transfer. That's still a thing witches can do, right?"

As their conversation migrated to boring adult things, Gary tried to distract himself from thinking about living for 500 years. He picked up his pajama shirt from the floor and pulled it over his head again without undoing the buttons. His attention slipped behind Talon and into the depths of the creepy temple, where he could hear the water gurgling down from the ceiling and into a large pool. He wondered if people were allowed to swim in it, although he didn't really want to. Where did that water come from anyway? Was it just the same water going around and around through the pipes? That was kind of gross. Did old pixie bathwater get dumped down to Earth? What about when pixies flushed their toilets? Was that where rain came from? Oh, gross. It probably was. Oh gross. Rain was so gross.

"Gary."

" _Ah!_  I'm sorry? Um. I mean, I'm sorry, sir?"

H.P. leaned his hand against the nearest archway. "So Gary, how would you like to donate some of your blood to Betty so she can reap some of the benefits of having genie DNA in her system too? I think that would be very useful in certain situations. You'd really be helping the Pixies out."

What did that mean? Gary searched his and Anti-Cosmo's faces, and Talon's too, not daring to get his hopes up. If he was supposed to live for 500 years, did that mean he had super healthy blood? What would happen if he gave some of that to Betty? You could do that, right? Donate your blood without dying? It was supposed to be painful, with needles and things, but he could be brave enough to do that. Could he donate blood to hundreds of people? Or thousands?

Hey. What if everyone lived for 500 years like him? Then he wouldn't have to feel so alone.

"Wait." Anti-Cosmo touched H.P.'s arm. "We'd better run a blood test for any nasty diseases that can be transmitted via blood contact or, ah, other bodily fluids first."

Talon straightened immediately. "I can do that. Let me! I wanna do it!"

Gary realized what was coming and took several steps back, out to the Temple's front pathway. But Talon bounded towards him anyway. In the split-second he had to make a decision, Gary realized that if he tried to run, it might just make the Head Pixie and Anti-Cosmo upset, and they could probably use magic to drag him back again.

So he put out his arm and stayed quiet. Talon nicked his skin with his fangs until it bled, then disappeared in a dark, smug cloud. The bite stung. Anti-Cosmo rubbed it down with a handkerchief before waving his wand over the indents. Gary's skin bubbled, although the punctures didn't close up. Anti-Cosmo frowned, but said nothing, so Gary kept his mouth shut and tried not to whimper while they waited. After a few (long) minutes, Talon returned with a sharp  _poof_. Gary tried not to cough on the smoke that came along with him.

"Thank you, dear boy." Anti-Cosmo swiped the new report from Talon's hand. He and H.P. skimmed through it in silence. Then they looked at each other. "Um."

"So Gary," H.P. began again, slowly turning back around. "How would you like to kiss Betty on an extremely regular basis for the rest of your lives so she can reap some of the benefits of having genie DNA in her system too?"

Huh? Did that mean he shouldn't give away some of his blood? Even if it helped people live for 500 years? Gary tilted his head as H.P. turned his attention on Talon and ordered him to wipe the last traces of blood out of his mouth.

Anti-Cosmo offered an encouraging nod. "You know the rhetorical phrase, 'Will a genie's kiss fry your lines off for a week?' The DNA transfer works like that. Or, take H.P. here for example. Were he to kiss someone, the person who received the influx of Pixie magic would have clear thoughts and hypersensitive attention to detail until the DNA works its way out of their system."

"Too much information," H.P. muttered.

Anti-Cosmo looked at him, his hands still raised in the air as he gestured during his explanation. "Really? You're doing this? You realize you literally have pixies who stand outside the Artemis Lounge in Serentip clearing drunken minds for a quick coin."

"I don't go around asking how it feels. That's gross."

"Well, I can think of at least  _one_  anti-fairy you've kissed off the top of my head. What does Anti-Fairy saliva do to you?"

"Nope." H.P. put up his arms and floated further into the Temple, repeating that word several times. Anti-Cosmo shook his head and tossed Gary an apologetic look.

"Anyhow. Fairies breathe purified magic from the energy field around them, and a fiery Genie kiss contains some of the most raw and intense magic known to the natural universe. Genie magic operates on an entirely different wavelength than a Fairy's does, you must understand. It's absolute, cosmic, and totally reality-bending. That sort of stuff would knock any Fairy unconscious in a snap and leave them gasping as they nearly drowned, but humans are different. A human could handle it and stay standing. Especially as you are a witch, and not a full-blooded genie. It's simple. And it won't transfer blood-borne magical diseases."

"Uh." Gary tightened his clasped hands. "Okay. So, you want me to kiss Betty sometimes so she'll get my, um, 'powers' too?"

"Your costume change powers, your ability to see all magical creatures and creations at any time, your eventual levitation if you ever develop that," H.P. listed on his fingers from a few paces away. He glanced at Anti-Cosmo and adjusted his glasses. "I don't think I'm forgetting anything."

"I turned into three clones of myself at a birthday party once," Gary muttered.

"Hmm…" Anti-Cosmo rubbed behind his neck, gazing up at the ceiling. It was too low. "Generally, it's impossible to be certain if there's an end to the abilities he'll develop over the course of his life. Even a few drops of Fomorian DNA can manifest very powerfully in most individuals… but then again, it  _does_  make up only 1.56% of his heritage, and most of him is human. The human magic system is entirely different from ours, what with all that absorbing energy from plant expulsions they do in preparation to moult into their final angel form after the death of their mortal body and all."

"Breathing oxygen?"

Anti-Cosmo waved his hand. "Yes, that. I for one find it fascinating that so many of you Earth-dwelling mortals can turn a gas so useless into something as valuable as carbon dioxide. Simply incredible. Now then, about your powers. It's true that witches down on Earth these days have gradually become more accepted in your society since the time of the Creature Wars. However, walking among them is never without its risks. Susanne I believe faced untold ridicules for the large boil on her face. You, being a siren, may find it awkward at times to avoid succumbing to wish granter's reflex around music. It's almost inevitable that you will be found out at some point or another, and a wonder that your mother's line have lasted as long as they have."

Gary knew the answer to that one. When someone found out about their heritage, his ancestors packed up and left. Remaining constantly on the move had kept his family undiscovered for decades, if not centuries. Maybe centuries.

Oh, goodness. All this thinking was making him really tired. It was too dark up in Pixie World, like a constant rainstorm. Especially at the entrance of the damp and dreary Water Temple. Gary really missed the sunshine.

"Fortunately," Anti-Cosmo went on, "you'll have H.P. and the rest of the Pixies to bail you out of trouble if things become too serious now. They'll keep an eye on you."

"Can he float?" H.P. wanted to know. "When will he start to float?"

"He's Genie-descended. Fire Tribe. He won't float." Anti-Cosmo shrugged, tapping his cheek with his claws. "Only Pressyne-descended witches float. Sky Tribe, remember?"

"That's disappointing."

"He can rapidly create, alter, and destroy matter simply by snapping his fingers, regardless of where in the universe he may be. Only Djinn can do that. His power is wholly internal, not half and half like our system. Isn't that fun?"

"Meh. I wanted him to float."

Gary fiddled with his thumbs. "Um. Okay. So if I kiss Betty, then… you think she'll be able to do the weird things that I do when I lose control of myself too?" And they thought that was a  _good_  thing? Did she want that? In Gary's experience, having uncontrollable powers that flared up in times of extreme stress and excitement were nothing but trouble. Had anyone even asked her how she felt about it?

And how long did that mean she would live? He was too afraid to ask. He had a sick feeling that the answer was probably "No". And it wasn't even a Yes-or-No question! But it was probably no. He couldn't just kiss Betty and magically give her the power to live an extra four or five centuries longer than normal. That didn't sound right. It was too easy. H.P. made it sound like if he kissed Betty instead of just donating some of his blood, he'd have to kiss her a lot, like every week or every day. The effects only lasted for a little while at a time.

But if his kisses did extend her life, how would that make  _him_  feel? What if she lived past the age of 100, or even 200, but she had to be kissed every single day or else she'd die? Or every single hour? And what if something happened and they were separated? Or what if one day he forgot? Then she would die, and it would be all his fault. He might go into the kitchen to get snacks so they could watch a movie together, and come out and find Betty lying dead on the floor in front of the chattering TV.

Could he live another 400 years longer with that on his shoulders?

"Only kiss her if you want to," Anti-Cosmo assured him. "The internal exchange of DNA would certainly grant her your abilities for a limited time, although she may not realize she has them if it isn't pointed out to her directly. But of course, you don't have to do anything you feel uncomfortable with."

H.P. pinched the anti-fairy's arm, and Anti-Cosmo slapped his hand away. "Well, he doesn't!"

"My sympathies," Talon chirped.

Gary straightened up, shoulders tense. He didn't want to know. He really, really didn't want to know how it worked or what he might be doing to Betty in the long run. He couldn't live with that. He just couldn't. So he didn't ask and tried to stay calm. "No, I'll do it. I get it. Maybe it'll be cool to have someone I can talk to about my powers. I grew up on a miniature golf course anyway, so I'm used to the whole idea."

"Of kissing girls you don't know very well?" H.P. asked with vague surprise, making an arch with one of his eyebrows. He seemed to do that a lot.

Gary kicked one bare foot against the Temple's entrance path, tucking his hands in the imaginary pockets at his waist. It was kind of an awkward pose, so he corrected himself by folding both arms behind his back. "Oh, no. I mean how thinking about kissing someone I don't really know all the time makes me feel a little like I'm rental equipment. My dad says that's what all relationships with girls are like anyway. Well, well, well, I'm gonna go take a little nap now." Half of that last sentence was said through a yawn. "I like nice warm sunbeams usually, but I guess up here in the clouds, I'll have to find somewhere else. Just come get me whenever you want me to kiss Betty for you. Okay?"


	7. Heroes to Goats

_Year of Water; Winter of the Sunlit River_

_Saturday, December 28th, 1991_

* * *

Anti-Cosmo's pride would never permit him to say it aloud, but the thing he liked most about staying in Pixie World's Onyx Hotel was the opportunity to crawl under warm blankets beside Anti-Wanda all night long. Roosting upside-down was all well and good, but wearing his favorite silk nightshirt in those cases was widely, ah… ill-advised.

 _H.P.'s orange djinn witch,_  he wrote. He balanced his clipboard against his knees, hunching forward to keep his wings from crushing against the decorative backboard. Behind the closed washroom door, Talon retched again. Anti-Wanda murmured in his ears and turned on the water faucet.

Hm. Anti-Cosmo furrowed his brow. He scratched out  _H.P.'s_  and left the rest as it was. With a pinch of influence and a tug of the right strings, Garrett wouldn't be H.P.'s anything for long. Please. Pixies reeked of new money. New money burned out just as quickly as it was acquired.

_Promote genie conservation. Talk shows? B. Crystal Ball Friday night, Rainbow time zone._

He scratched that out too and tapped the pen against his fangs. Fond as he was of old Billy's show, the fairy was simply too unpredictable to be trusted with news as big as this. Unfortunately, the same could be said of Anti-Willow… Her hearing was starting to go these days. Certainly not good news for any Anti-Fairy.

"Shame he had to be a buck," Anti-Cosmo muttered over the background noise of Talon emptying his stomach once again. He drummed his claws. "I'd so love to breed him. I'm sure he'd sire the prettiest little babies. I suppose I could ask around for any genies who would be interested in magically altering his fertility, but then again, that never ends well… We've seen how Norm turned out, sickly little thing… Poor bloke."

Wait. He looked again at the sheet of parchment pinned to his clipboard, then lifted it up to peek at Garrett's genetic profile underneath it. Then he chuckled. He sat up, folding his legs beneath the blankets. On the next line, he wrote,  _Elaine Cabrera. Fertile witch._

H.P. may be reluctant to share Garrett, but he hadn't said a word about keeping away from his mother. If she'd produced one orange witch, perhaps she could do it again. Even if he did show the orange gene, it didn't guarantee that any of Gary's offspring would have orange hair like him. Witch genetics were a fickle thing.

"Anti-Cozzie, can you come in here?"

His wings jumped. His head jerked up. Anti-Wanda? Oh. The washroom. Talon. "Yes, yes, of course, dear," Anti-Cosmo called, and untangled himself from his blankets. His foot caught in a snag and he tripped, falling face-first to the floor, but freeing his leg was a simple matter, and he was soon on his feet again, clearing his throat and straightening his… Well, the collar of his nightshirt. He smoothed a hand down his front. Never mind the fall. He was a man of dignity. And so, straightening his shoulders, Anti-Cosmo pushed down on the handle to the bathroom door and-

_VOOSH!_

An explosion of butterflies tore through the air, knocking Anti-Cosmo flat on his side. His elbow hit hard floor. His monocle tumbled from his face. Hundreds of butterflies rushed past him in a swarm of pastel colors, whirled in a cyclone, then settled at random points around the room to rest their wings. In the washroom, Talon groaned and clutched his stomach even tighter. Anti-Wanda sat sheepishly on the sink counter beside him, swinging her legs.

"What… did you need me to do?" Anti-Cosmo asked, pressing his monocle back into place. He pushed himself up with one hand and shooed one lingering, glowing insect away.

"Clear the anti-barf 'flies out," was her innocent response. Anti-Cosmo sighed. Standing, he turned his attention on Talon again. The young anti-fairy had changed from his Temple robes into blue and black camouflage footie (feetie?) pajamas. It wasn't often Anti-Cosmo saw him in those anymore. Anti-Wanda had gifted them to Talon after enchanting the camouflage to prevent small animals and insects from noticing the wearer during the night. Anti-Cosmo could have sworn the lad had turned up his nose at them two years ago. Oh dear. He reached automatically for a handkerchief, found none attached to the front of his nightshirt, and took an awkward step forward without it.

"Now, what ails you, child?"

Talon shook his head, dark curls bouncing. His glasses began to slip loose from his hair. Anti-Wanda tucked them back into place. "He's nervous 'cuz of Gary-boy," she said.

Oh. Right. Hypochondriac. Anti-Cosmo sighed again, this time only inwardly. It took a great deal of strength not to cross his arms and tap one foot against the floor.

"I didn't know he had a disease, Pop," Talon mumbled. His cheeks expanded, and he pressed two fingers to his lips. "I bit him. I bit his arm. His big fat arm and all his blood, with my teeth. Am I going to get his blood disease too?"

"No, child. It isn't zoonotic. That's why they call it  _human_  immunodeficiency virus. We fae only share a third of our biology with that of humans, and not the part that can become infected that way."

Talon blinked rapidly, tears rising behind his glasses. "But what if it still infects Anti-Fairies, and it just presents differently in us than in humans? What if I get it? What then?"

"You can't get it," Anti-Cosmo said firmly, running his claws through Talon's dark hair. "Put the thought from your mind, lad. It's a physical impossibility. No need to worry."

Anti-Wanda placed her hand on Talon's knee. "Hey. If you  _do_  get it, your pop will jist ask one of his genies to snap their fingers and cure ya. You'll be good, Tal. You'll be good."

"He  _can't_  get it, dear."

"He thinks he will," Anti-Wanda said simply. "I'm givin' him solutions. It's good to plan out your next steps in case something goes wrong."

"Goes wrong?" Anti-Cosmo arched one eyebrow. Withdrawing his hand from Talon's curls, he brought it instead to his own chest. "In case you've forgotten, Anti-Wanda, I am a  _supergenius._  When have you ever known any of my plans to go wrong?"

"Heh, you're cute," Anti-Wanda said, reaching out to pat his hair. Anti-Cosmo pushed her hand away, but she came back with two and pulled his face against her in a crushing hug. Once she had her husband restrained, she showered his forehead with several rapid kisses.

"You're wounding my pride, dear," he mumbled into her shoulder.

"Ain't no one watching but us guys."

"Am I going to die?" Talon asked.

 _"No._  We are Anti-Fairies. Our bodies shed sickness as quickly as we shed fur."

"But what if that's not true for me?" He pulled his knees to his chest and clutched them tight. "Maybe we only  _think_  Anti-Fairies can't get infected through human blood. I wouldn't have bitten him if I knew he was sick!"

Anti-Cosmo finally disengaged from Anti-Wanda's smothering affections. "Mm. Showing off to impress H.P., were you now? Saucy boy, you are."

"No," Talon said, quietly. He lifted his eyes. "H.P. always says he's proud of me already. I was trying to impress  _you."_

Silence. "Oh," Anti-Cosmo said. He pressed the points of his wand's star cap into his palm, rotating the handle in slow motion. Talon let his wings droop behind him.

"Pop? How much longer do I have to live in Pixie World?"

"Yes, um… You see, my castle is still rather filthy at this time. It's terribly musty, with germs lurking around every corner and in every fluttering cobweb. You wouldn't like it. Better that you stay in Pixie World for now. In any case, the fact remains that you're my son." He rested his hand on Talon's curls again. "You're my heir."

Talon glared at his feet. "Until you and Ma have your own kid. One who actually has your oh-so-special colored eyes. That would make the people happy, wouldn't it?"

Anti-Cosmo and Anti-Wanda exchanged a glance. "Ooh," Anti-Cosmo said. He twisted the cap on his wand. "Well, we'll… fly over that gorge when we come to it, hm?"

"You'll forget about me when you have another baby around the Castle," Talon muttered, hugging his knees tighter.

"That's not true."

Anti-Wanda brushed her hand over Talon's leg until he looked at her. "Lovebug, listen here. You're our son, through and through. Even if I get preggers with a li'l brother or sister for you, our love for our Talon baby ain't never gonna change."

"Whatever," Talon slid off the counter and walked to the washroom door. "I'm going to bed."

Anti-Cosmo bit his lip. His eyelids clenched shut. After a few painful seconds, he hurried from the washroom. He was just in time to grab the bedroom door before it slammed shut. When he poked out his head, he spotted the lanky anti-fairy slumping down the hall.

"Talon?"

Talon stopped walking, but didn't turn around.

"Would you mind it terribly if your mother and I roost with you tonight? I'll need a moment to change my nightshirt into something more practical, but I'll be there in a moment with a glass of warm milk. That will put you to sleep quite nicely."

Talon's fists tightened at his sides. "Hanging upside-down gives me vertigo, Pop, and milk will just upset my stomach again. When I was a pup, H.P. bought me an electric blanket and all the giant stuffed animals I could ever need to simulate Anti-Fairy colony life on the ground. I'll be fine. Thanks."

"Yes, I suppose so… All right, then. Good night." Anti-Cosmo clasped his hands and took one more floating step forward. "You know I love you, don't you, Talon?"

"I…" He turned halfway around. "I want to come home, Pop. I like how sterile Pixie World is, but I don't have any  _friends_  here. 'cept for Nova and Sapphy, I've never even had a friend in my whole life. It's not like I ever get to see them anymore."

Interesting… He didn't mention Anti-Zinnia. Anti-Cosmo eyed him warily. "I know it's difficult, but you can stick it out a mite longer, can't you?"

Talon heaved his wings in a shrug. "When can I move into your Castle for good?"

"Oh, soon enough, I'm certain. You know how I miss you when you're away." Anti-Cosmo sighed, pressing a hand to his cheek. "Of course, we simply must figure out what to do regarding your eyes… H.P. knows his way around eyewear, and perhaps he could provide you with tinted lenses that still match your prescription…"

Talon began to shake, clutching his fists just behind him. His eyes squeezed shut behind his glasses. Anti-Cosmo paused, sliding his eyes back and forth across the younger anti-fairy's freckled face.

"Talon? What's wrong?"

"I  _hate_  the inheritance traditions!" Talon's wings exploded behind him, flapping wildly. "It's not fair! You weren't even supposed to become High Count after Anti-Bryndin. Everyone only agreed to let you lead the Anti-Fairies because you have green eyes, but when it's  _me_ , your  _son_ , who  _should_  inherit after you, they're not going to listen, are they? They're not! You don't want me to be your heir! You only keep me around because I'm the only anti-fairy who's been born since the fairy baby mandate cut off all your other options. Or else you'd just dump me on H.P. forever so you don't have to look at me anymore and think about all your old mistakes. You want another kid because I was born with red eyes like some kind of commoner!"

"Talon, enough." Anti-Cosmo swept his arm to the side. "You'll wake the hotel. Worshipers have traveled a long way to visit the Water Temple."

"Look at me!  _Look me in these eyes_ and tell me it's not true!"

Anti-Cosmo clenched his teeth, but didn't glance away. "I said, that's enough now. I broke the law to give you a healthy life, child. One would think you'd respect me for that."

"The people," Talon snarled, stabbing a claw vaguely in the direction of Anti-Fairy World, "should accept me as your heir, no matter what color my eyes are."

"I don't disagree, lad, and I don't intend to argue with you. However, you must realize that it isn't within my power to alter the expectations of an entire society."

He stepped forward, fur bristling. "Bet the gossip's true! Bet you were unfaithful. Bet you had me with some hired anti-will o' the wisp for a handful of coins. Is that where I came from? Are you even my real father? Do you ever plan to tell me  _anything?"_

Anti-Cosmo tightened his grip on his wand, but regarded the furious anti-fairy with cool collection. His hand twitched, but he kept his arm low. "I will not argue with you, Talon, and I will not succumb to your goading. I am your father, Anti-Wanda is your mother, and despite your legitimacy, you did not inherit our spirit-blessed eyes. That is all you need to know, apart from the fact that if you do not hold your tongue, you will lose your inheritance tonight. Do not try my patience further."

Talon simmered a moment more, then swung around and stalked away down the hall.

 _"Telford Anti-Westley Anti-Lunifly._  You have yet to be dismissed. Don't you  _dare_  turn your back on your High Count while he's trying to converse with you!"

"'Trying,'" Talon said, and kept walking.

* * *

Sunset didn't exist in the cloudlands, or at least not in the same way it did in the world below. After parting ways with Mr. Bayard, Betty passed her day alternating between playing Roll In the Clouds and Count Rocks with Kenny, and studying the slow brightening and dimming of the starlight above. Just when she expected to die of boredom, a blue lady with dark blue hair, pink eyes, and big teeth came out to see them. She and Kenny were picking apart leaves at the edge of the woods when the lady just sort of… showed up there. She introduced herself as Anti-Cosmo's wife and Talon's mother, Anti-Wanda, and after perching on the fence that divided the city area from the woods, she listened patiently when Betty explained how nervous Gary had been the last time she'd seen him, walking away with the Head Pixie to visit Anti-Cosmo.

"Mr. Sanderson said Gary will probably need more help and attention than I do," Betty said, hugging her body. "I'm kind of scared to be his friend. What if I accidentally make things worse, like if I say something that hurts his feelings? Or what if he gets hurt while we play a game? I just want to help."

"Keep him happy," Anti-Wanda suggested, folding her arms behind her head.

"How do I do that?"

"Be his friend, sugar. Let the rest happen as it will. Ain't nothing that can't be made better when you know you've got a friend beside ya." After giving one last tip of her crown, Anti-Wanda floated back towards the hotel she'd come from, whistling  _Frog Went a Courtin'_  as she went.

Be his friend?

Betty took Kenny's hand and went to look for Gary in Mr. Sanderson's room. Gary, it seemed, had passed his day alternating between napping in some of Pixie World's warmest locations, and jumping on Mr. Sanderson's and Mr. Longwood's and those guys' couch.

"You shouldn't jump on there," Betty said when she and Kenny came in. They'd knocked 'cuz that was polite, but Gary had shouted that the door was unlocked, so then they went in.

"It's super-duper bouncy," Gary said, but obediently flopped onto his butt and stopped jumping.

"What's this?" Betty asked, pointing at a stack of red-backed cards on the low table by the couch.

"A game I found on a table outside. Want to play?"

Betty released Kenny's hand so he could play with a wooden block. "How's it work?"

"It's a question game." Gary picked up the stack and flipped over the card on top. "I'll read it, you answer. Okay. 'What's more important? Truth or ideals?'"

"What are ideals?" she asked, sitting on the nearest end of the couch.

"Hmm… I think striving for ideals means you want to do what's best for everyone else, even if it's very difficult and you have to give up your own time and things you like."

Betty leaned back on her hands, chewing on a strand of her hair. She spit it out. "Well, I think I have to say 'Truth.' It's more important to do the right thing than get what you want."

Gary tilted the card back and forth in his hand. "I don't know… I think if your ideals are pure, then it's better to help others than become so hardened, you forget your emotions."

"I don't think you lose your emotions if you're being truthful."

"Well, I don't think you stop caring about doing the right thing if you're following your ideals."

Betty shrugged, her eyes wandering to the ceiling. She didn't like sitting still, and she wondered if she could get Gary to come outside and play while Kenny was busy with blocks, but he seemed like he was enjoying the question cards, and Anti-Wanda had said "Keep him happy." Her feet tapped together. "Yeah, but if truth's not important to you, you're automatically wrong. Who wants to be wrong all the time?"

"Hee hee. People who don't like having arguments, I guess." Gary put the card down and drew another. He read it silently, and his eyebrows pressed against each other.

"What's it say?" Betty asked, more to make conversation than because she was curious.

"It says, 'If you could only save one from drowning, who would it be: Your best friend's sibling or her lover?"

"What's a sibling?"

"It means 'brother or sister.'"

She held out her arms to Kenny as he crawled into her lap. "And what's a lover?"

"That's the person you sneak away from your husband to go kiss."

Betty wrinkled her nose. "Why are your sibling and lover both about to drown?"

"That's just what it says on the card."

"Can I see?"

He handed over the card, and Betty read it, keeping it above Kenny's head so his pudgy fingers wouldn't grab or bend it.

"Gary, this says 'If your  _best friend_  could only save one from drowning, who would you want it to be: Your sibling or your lover?'"

"What? No it doesn't." He took it back. "No, look. It doesn't."

Betty shrugged. "Well, you don't even have a sibling, and neither of us have a lover anyway. And I don't want Kenny to drown. That would be so sad!"

"It's weird that there are only two options," Gary said. "You'd think there would be one for saving your best friend." He replaced the card in the bottom of his stack. He didn't flip over another, and his eyes stayed downcast. His fingers tightened. "Can I make up a question to ask now?"

"Okay." She held Kenny a little tighter, trying to stop him from wiggling as he arched his back and whined.

"If you had to do something every day for the rest of your life so you wouldn't get in trouble, would you still do it even if you were scared it might make your friend sad?"

Betty tilted her head. "Well… I guess I'd have to. It's too bad it might make my friend sad, but I think it's important to follow the rules so you don't get in trouble. I think it would be hard being friends with someone who was okay with breaking the rules."

Gary frowned. "Even if they're a really nice person?"

"A good person would follow the rules," she said with a shrug.

"Yeah, but you can still be nice if you don't follow every rule."

"Maybe, but I still wouldn't want to be friends with someone who doesn't care about rules."

"I didn't say I didn't care about rules!" Gary's voice rose in pitch, his hair prickling up like whooshing flames. "I just said I don't want to make you mad at me!"

"Don't yell," Betty scolded, holding Kenny tight. "I'm not mad at you, but you can't yell at me when I didn't do anything wrong. Why are you so angry?"

Gary's shoulders slumped. He dropped his attention to his hands, upturned in his lap. They tightened. He pulled down on a wrinkle in his shirt. "I don't know… I just really want to be your friend, Betty. But when H.P. and Anti-Cosmo talked to me today, they said I have to… They said I have to kiss you, so you'll be able to do genie magic like me every day. And if I kiss you, I don't want you to be mad at me."

"… Oh." Kenny kept squirming in her arms, but Betty didn't let him go. She actually held him a little tighter, even when he started to cry. She looked down. "Um. Kisses are mostly for people who are in love, like moms and dads."

"Yeah, but…" Gary's hands tightened in his shirt. Then he let go. "Maybe we should practice before we have to do it for real. I don't want any of the pixies to see us in case I mess up. They might laugh at me." Sighing, he pressed his hands to his cheeks. "Do you know how to kiss?"

"I can try," Betty said, slowly.

Gary nodded and rubbed behind his neck. "Um. How long is a kiss supposed to be?"

"I don't know." Betty looked down at the squirming boy in her lap and finally let him go. Kenny crawled a few steps away, and turned to look back at her, his face all tight with sadness. Salty tears glimmered in his eyes. "Maybe three seconds."

He took a deep breath and shifted onto his hands and knees. His fingers curled between the gap in the couch cushions. "Okay. I'll kiss you, and you count. Then at least we've practiced once."

"Okay. You kiss, I count. Got it."

Gary screwed his eyes into the tightest slits and leaned forward, lips ready to kiss. Betty tilted her head, then decided to mimic him. Closing her eyes, she squished her mouth against his until she could feel his teeth.

 _One,_ Betty thought. That was the only number she got out. A buzz of energy shot down her back and tingled all the fuzz on her arms. She yelped, breaking their lips apart, and flew backwards across the apartment- smack into Mr. Sanderson, who had just opened the front door. He didn't even stumble. She just slid down his legs and landed in a heap on his shoes, her hair frizzed and crackling. Kenny laughed, holding his block.

"Oh my goodness!" Gary's hands flew to his mouth. "Your hair poofed! I'm so sorry. Let me fix it."

"Are you two…" Mr. Sanderson took a few seconds to study the situation, then finished with, "… kissing up here?"

Gary covered his face with both hands, probably turning red like his hair. Betty scrambled to her feet. "Don't get mad at him! He just wanted to see what would happen."

"I'm sorry!" Gary blurted.

"Gary, we enforce a strict sexual harassment policy on Pixies Inc. premises." Mr. Sanderson thought for a minute after he said that. He tapped his fingers on his leg. "On second thought, we don't." His gaze fell on the stack of cards on the couch next to Gary. "Those look like Anti-Wanda's Tarrow cards."

Gary looked at them. "Maybe they're hers. I just found them on the picnic table in the outdoor eating place that has the roof and no walls."

Mr. Sanderson snatched the stack from Gary's hand and showed him the seven colorful animals printed on the backs of all the cards. "These are a sacred Anti-Fairy artifact that tells the future through riddles and cruel mind games, and they aren't for playing with."

"Oh, sorry. I didn't know."

"Never mind." Mr. Sanderson tucked the cards into his back pocket. He took his phone out from inside his coat. "Are you two ready to go? If we don't leave now, I'm going to be late."

"Go where?" Betty asked from the floor. She sat up, pressing her palm to her prickling hair. It buzzed beneath her skin, but she wasn't hurt. Other than that, though… she didn't… feel all that different.

"Dimmsdale," Mr. Sanderson said, as though she should have known this already.

"Where's that?"

"It's a city in California, down on Earth. Plenty of oxygen for you to breathe. You'll enjoy it." He turned his head, taking in the hanging plants that still decorated the apartment ceiling, and some of the pots full of leaves on the kitchen counters. "Much safer for you to live down there than up here."

"Are we going to have a house?" Gary asked.

"An apartment, like this one, only smaller. We Pixies will pay your expenses and provide you with food." Sanderson tapped his watch without looking at it. "I need to go. Are you ready?"

"Wait!" Gary shot down the hall to the room he and Betty had slept in the night before. He came back with his backpack, stuffing the notebook he'd given Betty inside it. He swung it over his shoulders and looked around. "Um… I think that's all. I have my jacket, and my medicine's in the pocket."

"I don't have anything," Betty said, standing up. "Just Kenny."

"Then we'll go." Mr. Sanderson shook his phone. A ringing noise filled the air. Betty's arms tingled. As she watched, her feet dissolved below her, and her vision turned white.

When she could see again a few seconds later, she was standing on a bumpy road in a quiet city, and the sun was setting. Mr. Sanderson had materialized them in an alley between two very tall buildings, and he motioned for them to step out onto the sidewalk where it was a little brighter. They did. A few people were out walking, but no one seemed to notice them. When she looked to her left, she was surprised to find, of all things, a wishing well.

Mr. Sanderson patted his pockets, then withdrew a small piece of metal and three apples. "Here is your apartment key," he told Gary, and to Betty, "Here are some snacks. Your building is this brick one right here. Look for the room that matches the number on that key. Go inside and stay there until I come for you. Don't wander off. There's a magical bus that stops at this point every day at 4:44, 11:11, 2:22, 9:44, and midnight, but you absolutely shouldn't get on it or the lack of oxygen at its next stop will kill you, most probably. I hope you understand."

"Okay," Betty said, taking the apples. Gary took the key.

"You really have to leave us here?" he asked.

"I'm sorry," Sanderson said, lifting his magical phone again. His tone sounded more firm than apologetic. "I recognize that it's unprofessional of me to drop you three out here alone, but an emergency situation came up, and I need to handle it if we Pixies are going to continue looking after you. We can't let the Fairies find out we kept you in the cloudlands longer than was legal. Be logical. I'll be back late tonight to ensure you're settling in."

Gary held the apartment key tight in his fist. "All right… We'll be safe. See you later, Mr. Sanderson. Thanks for taking care of us."

Mr. Sanderson bobbed his head and disappeared in a burst of puffy white squares. Gary coughed, and Kenny squealed and pointed at the place where he'd been floating. After flapping her hands at the leftover magic, Betty decided to check out the well up close. It looked old-fashioned for something in a big city, all old stones with a rotting wooden bucket balanced on the edge. Its rope would probably snap if anything heavier than a penny was dropped inside. The well was just standing there in the middle of the white sidewalk, with a plaque beside it.

_Here fell Alden Bitterroot the witch_

_who conned our town with evil tricks_

_Twas a boy age ten who solved the mystery_

_so our descendants might hear the history_

_Our founder Dale Dimm did nobly strive_

_to save our souls Nov. 2nd, 1665_

Betty bit into one of the apples and peered over the edge of the wall. Sometimes, old wells that weren't used anymore were blocked off with a wooden platform to make sure no one fell or dropped anything down there. Not this one. She could see all the way to the bottom. It was pretty dark, but she could just make out some gross mud way, way down there, with a trickle of water running through it, like an underground river that had mostly dried up.

Gary came up beside her. He read the plaque before Betty could even think to cover it with her hand. "Wait," he said, furrowing his brow. "A witch fell in this well?"

"I guess." Betty glanced behind her to make sure Kenny hadn't run out into the road. He was sitting down. She leaned forward. "Maybe he's still down there, climbing up and falling down forever."

"But he lived hundreds of years ago. Wouldn't he have died by now?"

"Nah. Not if this Alden guy really is a real witch like you. Anti-Cosmo's wife, Anti-Wanda, told me witches live for hundreds of years."

Gary looked down at his shoes. "Oh. Yeah."

Betty squinted into the well, then gave her apples to Gary. When he took them, she cupped her hands around her mouth. "Hello down there, Alden! It's me, Betty Lovell! This is Gary Cabrera! Hiiii!"

She was answered by nothing but silence.

"Do you think he's okay?" Gary asked, scooting closer to her.

"No. He's in a well."

Gary shifted his weight between his feet. "I just meant, it's really sad that he's trapped in a small space, and there's some water at the bottom, but probably no food. If he fell in 1665, then that means he's been trapped down there alone for hundreds of years." Folding his arms, he leaned forward against the low wall of the well beside her. "Do you think witches ever starve to death?"

Betty thought about it. "Well, you're part genie. Maybe Alden's part genie too. My dad read me books about genies when I was little, and genies don't need to eat anything when they're trapped in magic lamps, right? Maybe the well is Alden's lamp, and he just lives without food."

Gary stared into the dark. "Do you think his family ever tried to get him out?"

"Maybe they didn't have a long enough rope."

"But his family would miss him if he was in the well. Wouldn't they keep looking for a long enough rope forever?"

Betty shrugged and checked on Kenny again. She took back the apples. "Yeah, that's weird. I don't know. Maybe his family all died before 1665. He probably lived longer than them because he's a witch, so they all died a long time before he fell in the well."

Gary bent his head. His fingers tightened on the stones. "He's still a person. If he really did fall in this well, why didn't the other people in town help him get out?"

"Maybe he broke his neck and died."

"It was because he was a witch, wasn't it?" He was whispering, eyes squeezed shut. "They didn't think he deserved to be rescued because he was a witch, so if he lived after he fell, everyone just left him down there and hoped he'd die for good."

"Well. Yeah. People used to be scared of witches, but that was a long time ago." Betty touched her fingers to Gary's arm. "I'm not scared of them, though. Especially not you."

Gary forced a smile. "Thanks, Betty. I'm really glad that you're my friend. But do you think Alden's scared down there? I'd be scared." His gaze trailed back into the well. "And lonely. And hungry. And cold. But I think I'd be scared to climb up, because I'd be scared that everyone would do something to me that's even worse than leaving me in the well."

"Like what?"

"I don't know… But I'd be scared to see all the people who hate me." A few seconds passed in silence. Then he whispered, "I think the only thing worse than knowing everyone hates you… is not knowing how many people hate you until it's too late."

Betty thought about that for a minute, looking between him, Kenny, and the depths of the well. "Let's get him out."

Gary looked up. "What?"

"Alden Bitterroot. If he's really still alive down there, let's get him out of the well."

"We can't do that! We don't even know if he's still alive." Gary lowered his voice. "What if we see his dead body? What if we see rats chewing on his rotting bones?"

"Then we give him a proper burial to pay our amends, because that's respectful," Betty decided. She let go of the well. "Can you use your genie powers to make some rope? We can sing a song, if that helps."

Gary shook his head. Fast. "I can't. I can't control my powers at all. It only acts up when it's really happy… or if it's scared. And even if I could make a rope, I wouldn't want to put it down there."

Betty frowned. "Why not? The story's either real or pretend. If it's pretend, there's nothing to worry about, and if it's real, shouldn't we rescue Alden from the well?"

"He didn't shout back to us," Gary said quickly. "If the story was ever real, he's probably dead. Besides, if we climb inside the well, we could fall and get hurt. Or trapped. That's worse. Let's go inside and find our room."

"Can you please just try to make rope? Aren't you curious? If we're going to live here for a long time, we should probably figure out if there really is a guy in the well."

She let go of the well, but Gary grabbed her arm. When she looked at him, his eyes were huge. The green-blue parts took up so much room, only a small ring of white showed around the edges.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't make me see Alden. Don't go down there and look for Alden. Don't tell me if you see rats eating his bones. Please just don't. It might not be safe down there, and I don't want you to get stuck in the well too. If he's already dead, then there's nothing we can do about it. If he's alive, then he's lived this long without us, so he must be doing okay. Please don't go."

"… Okay." Betty slid her wrist from his squeezing, bony grip. "Maybe we can try again when we're older. Maybe it won't seem so scary then."

"Maybe," Gary said, unconvinced. He glanced at the well again, then shivered and turned his back. When he wasn't looking, Betty rolled one of her apples around in her hands, then slipped it over the well's wall. She never heard it hit the bottom.

* * *

Maneuvering the courtroom came so naturally to Pixies, it's a wonder they weren't there more often. The four Robes who sat upon the Fairy Council never seemed to have enough to do, so between that and their extreme magical prowess, Fairy Court sessions met notoriously quickly. Not that there were ever a lot of them. Despite their long lifespans, few Fairies ran across problems too difficult to work out on their own. Friendliness was their nature, cooperation their hope, and that's just the sort of people they were.

Pixies were different. Pixies held the simplest of bitter grudges for no less than thirty-seven years. Some for hundreds of thousands. Tonight's grudge had lasted a lifetime.

The Head Pixie sat calmly in his place at the defense's table, lightly gripping its edge. Sanderson sat beside him, staring down his opponent on the other side of the room from behind his shades. Stubborn Longwood gazed back, unapologetic behind his own.

 _I'm going to pour ink over his dry-cleaning for this,_ Sanderson thought.  _And for good measure, I'll switch all his black pens out for pink ones._

There were no windows in the courtroom that showed the stars, but it was growing late. Sanderson could tell, as any pixie could. Time ticked in his head as constantly as a flowing river, progressing at a steady pace. He did not tap his fingers, or check his watch, or pat his foot against the ground impatiently. He only sat, as did Longwood, as did H.P. Awaiting the verdict of the Fairy Council.

Tonight was an interesting night. Not only for Pixies. Not only for those attending Fairy Court today. But for Fairykind as a whole.

The case  _Valleysky v. Geraldson_ had famously granted a fairy godparent the right to legally adopt her godchild long ago. The Geraldsons had not been a loving family by any stretch of the imagination, and all things considered, it hadn't taken much coaxing for Fairy Court to rule in Valleysky's favor. Shane Valleysky, née Geraldson, had gone on to live a short but pleasant life alongside his godmother. Fairy Court worked hard (perhaps obsessively) to keep godparents from abducting their charges as they once had in the days of changeling children long ago. Tonight,  _Longwood v. Sanderson VIII_ , known also as "The Bumper Cars Case," would determine whether Pixies were allowed the privileges Fairies were granted automatically by the species of their birth.

 _If I can't have them,_ Longwood seemed to think, staring silently,  _then neither can you._ And oh, how he'd whined tonight… Waving around his papers, bringing up the fate that had befallen Aspen at Sanderson's hand…  _That_  was a low blow. And a foolish one- Sanderson was  _still_  pressing back a smirk at the Head Pixie's rebuke.

But for all his cleverness, Longwood was running out of ideas. The game was decided the moment Juandissimo Magnifico took the stand. The fairy kept his eyes low for most of it, apart from when he lifted them to gaze at Sanderson in soft forlornness.

"Juandissimo," the Head Pixie said, pacing the air before him. "Is it true that you were once godparent to Eunice Tuckfield, mother of Quincy Tuckfield, father of Gary Cabrera?"

" _Sí,_ señor."

"Prior the ruling of  _Valleysky v. Geraldson_ centuries ago, the law stated that the most recent godparent documented in the family line, if applicable, is given priority opinion on what Fairy World can do in order to help a child in need. To this day, Fairy Court still requests the blessing of this most recent godparent whenever it's deemed appropriate. Do you have any interest in taking Gary for your own?"

Juandissimo's fingers tightened. Sanderson noticed. " _No,_  señor."

"Interesting. Why don't you?"

The fairy glanced away, fingers clenching further. "Because I have been marked as emotionally unstable and on probation from godparent work. It will be several years yet before I am offered a supervised trial run again. At this time, I am not permitted to adopt a child of my own. All I wish is for Gary to live a life that is comfortable for him, full of great peace and low when it comes to stressful pain."

"Should Sanderson, a pixie, prove able of meeting Gary's needs, would he have your blessing to legally adopt Gary Cabrera?"

Juandissimo stared at his fingers, slowly interlacing them. "I will give it to the one the Fairy Council deems worthy of raising the human children tonight."

"Thank you, Juandissimo." The Head Pixie turned on his wingtips, hands still clasped behind him. He was smiling now. "No further questions."

The case was decided a moment later, ruling in Sanderson's favor. It took every ounce of self-control he had not to lift his chin in defiance when he looked Longwood's way.

"The children will need to have their magical organs removed, of course," said the Purple Robe.

Sanderson's wings stiffened at their tips. His fingers lay spread on the tabletop. "You're taking away their appendixes?"

The Green Robe inclined his head. "It's for their own good, so no Fairy or Anti-Fairy uses magic to draw from their life forces."

Translation:  _Because we don't trust Pixies._

H.P. floated forward. "If I may speak on behalf of my client, Sanderson did make clear that he is not interested in adopting the children for their magic."

"Then you should have no problem doing this."

Sanderson looked at H.P., his wings beating in slow motion. So, um… The entire reason they were buttering up the children was sort of leading up to the time in 10 years when the Pixies' 37-year plan to gain absolute control of Fairy World would come to fruition. Along the way, it would be very useful to have a godchild or two in their wallet pockets.

And the Fairies were ending the entire plan in its tracks. What was the point of adopting a trio of needy humans now?

Sanderson didn't dare open his mouth, but pled with the Head Pixie through his shades. He wanted to argue that forcing the children to undergo surgery without a medical cause was highly unethical, but he didn't know enough about human court cases to back up his reasoning. More specifically, he couldn't think of many human rulings that held valid in Fairy Court to begin with, let alone one specific to this situation. H.P. looked back at him, stone silent.

The Pink Robe glanced at his fellows, then leaned forward, knitting his fingers. "Of course, as part of our court ruling, we'll proceed with the procedure quickly and painlessly. We can do it right here in the courtroom in a manner of minutes, all expenses paid by us."

Again, Sanderson looked at H.P. for a response. The magical world got along chiefly through empathy (a concept that Pixies preferred to describe as a "mental link"). Among Fairykind, the appendix was the organ that allowed multiple magic-users to sync up to the same thought in their mind's eye, combining their power to grant the same wish with high rates of collaboration and low rates of conflict. Godparents synced to the will of their godkids in much the same way, detecting stress and energy levels even from afar. Many godparents formed such close links with the feelings and images floating around in their charge's mind that, following the termination of services, some godparents requested to maintain the link for sentimental reasons, while others became too stricken with grief or otherwise overwhelmed that the mental link itself actually ruptured.

Politics of the modern era generally encouraged appendix removal as a standard practice. Once the appendix was out of the picture, former godparents were no longer subject to any emotional fluctuations their past godkids may experience over the course of their lives (hormonal mood swings, lustful fantasies, highly complicated mathematical theories that made the head spin, so on and so forth), and ex-godkids were no longer at risk for immoral magic users to come along and steal power from their life forces. It was better that way for everyone.

A "wish" was a construct of empathy. In legal terms, a  _wish_  resulted when the will of the godchild combined with the will of the godparent charged with them; a  _spell_  was the result of the godparent acting on their own, drawing no power from the appendix of a third party. Theoretically 95% of fae magic performed in the universe could be classified as a spell, though that word was considered legal jargon and rarely made its way into casual conversation. The removal of the appendix did not prevent a godparent from continuing to perform  _spells_  in proximity of a human, although it very effectively prevented a wish-granter from capitalizing on the extreme energy boost that came with granting  _wishes_.

Sanderson clenched his fingers very slightly around the edge of the table. Genies didn't need their appendixes in order to perform magic. Gary's abilities weren't projected to suffer from this. And if the Fairy Council didn't ask whether or not he was a witch, then Sanderson didn't see why they should have to volunteer that information.

"You may engage in the removal procedure at will," H.P. said. "I'll bring the children."

Sanderson glanced at him sideways, but he didn't say a word.


End file.
